


Ash the Pragmagic vs. Hogwarts: Year One

by CTVulpin



Series: Ash vs. Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CTVulpin/pseuds/CTVulpin
Summary: Ash the Pragmagic has been in some strange situations before.  It's rather hard to beat waking up one day as a near-sighted, underfed, 10-year old boy stuffed in a cupboard under the stairs, though.  A passive-aggressive note gives Ash just enough information to get this latest misadventure started on the right foot, but he's going to need to juggle a lot of plates on the road to figuring out just what the skeb is going on, how to get back to his own body and home, and who needs to be set on fire for putting him in this situation, all while making sure he can leave this Harry Potter kid with a manageable life afterwards.
Series: Ash vs. Hogwarts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804198





	1. Privet Drive

**Author's Note:**

> \- Insert standard "I don't own Harry Potter" disclaimer here -

Ash the Pragmagicwoke up instantly, as was normal for him, and realized that he was not in familiar surroundings, which was not that normal. He was in pitch-black darkness for one thing, lacking even the glow of the streetlight through his blinds, and for another, the air smelled of unfamiliar dust and poor ventilation. He felt like he was lying between a thin blanket and a mattress with mostly broken springs, and when he shifted experimentally he felt no bindings of any sort. _Something doesn’t add up_ , Ash thought, sitting up carefully. _Nobody clever enough to be able to break into my house and move me without waking me up would be dumb enough to leave me unrestrained_ _at their bolt-hole. And I’m not aware of any active enemies with the guts to try…_

Twisting the fingers of one hand through a familiar pattern, Ash summoned a ball of light into existence, obtaining one answer and several more questions as a result. The light revealed that he was inside a small closet or large cupboard under a staircase, with his bed jammed into a corner and a set of shelves built between the support beams at the taller end. As to the questions, the light also revealed that Ash did not look like himself. His formerly perfect vision was now a blurry mess, so he felt around until his hands encountered a pair of round, black glasses. Putting the glasses on, Ash looked at himself again. He was humanoid and still biologically male, but he was a lot smaller and thinner than he used to be. Paler too, like someone who wasn’t getting quite enough to eat. There were no mirrors to be found in the closet-room, so he couldn’t be sure of his hair beyond the fact that it was longer than he preferred (too short to give foes a grip point). His face didn’t feel quite right either; his nose was slightly too round and he felt some sort of scar on his forehead.

_Curiouser and curiouser,_ Ash thought. Now that he could see clearer, he took another look around the closet, hoping to find clues to his predicament before trying the door. The shelves at the tall end of the room mostly held clothes made for somebody slightly taller and significantly fatter than Ash’s present build, plus a wind-up alarm clock that declared the time to be seven o’clock ( _Morning or evening, though?_ Ash wondered), a couple of small toy figurines, and a piece of paper folded tent-style perched on top of a stack of socks. The side facing Ash bore the words “To You.”

“Oh joy,” Ash drawled, “the abductor can’t be bothered to gloat in person.” He picked up the paper and unfolded it to find a letter within. The words, however, were not quite what Ash was expecting to see:

_Good morning and welcome to your new life. Your name is Harry Potter. You are ten years old. You were orphaned at the age of one and placed in the care of your closest relatives, the Dursleys, who live at Number 4, Privet Drive in the English village of Little Whinging. Your uncle Vernon has a successful career as a salesman for a drill company, while your mother’s sister, Petunia, is a respectable housewife. Your cousin Dudley is a few weeks older than you. In fact, today is his birthday._

_Your own birthday happens to fall on the 31 st of July, but do not concern yourself with that, because nobody cares. The Dursleys only house you out of a sense of societal obligation; seeing as your parents were no-account deadbeats, your aunt and uncle have no reason to think you’ll turn out any better. You have no friends; the only person outside the family that you need to know anything about is Mrs. Figg, the crazy cat lady who looks after you whenever the Dursleys go out for the evening. You’ll likely be seeing her today, as Dudley usually gets to go on a family outing on his birthdays. You are never invited._

_Enjoy your new life. Harry. Just remember: there is nothing special about you._

Ash snorted, his eyes darting up to the mage-light that was now floating next to the light-bulb dangling from the steps. “Nothing special,” he sneered, starting to crumple up the note. He stopped himself mid-action, though, and instead carefully folded the note up and laid it under the short stack of oversized shirts. _Better to not throw away my only clue_ , he thought. He stretched back out on the bed, hands folded over his chest, as he tried to think. _The biggest question, of course, is why? Why am I-_

“Get up!” barked a shrill woman’s voice, accompanied by a loud knocking on the cupboard door.

_That would be the aunt, then_ , Ash thought sourly, sitting up. “I’m awake,” he called back.

“Be quick about it,” Petunia snapped back. “I need you to look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn! I want everything to be perfect for Duddy’s birthday.”

“Aye aye, ma’am,” Ash said crisply, shifting closer to the shelves. Petunia apparently decided this was an acceptable response, as Ash heard her footsteps moving away from the door.

As Ash sorted through the available clothes looking for something that wouldn’t immediately fall off when he stood up, his mind raced. _Ok, Cinderella, how are we going to play this? Mysterious Letters’mn claims this Harry Potter kid isn’t special, yet I have my magic. So, is magic an everyday thing and I’m supposed to be average at best? I am stuck with a skinny and probably malnourished ten-year-old’s body, so I’m probably not winning any physical fights nor will I have much credibility if I try to speak against my so-called caretakers. Especially since I don’t have any memories of how bad they_ actually _are. Mysterious Letters’mn hasn’t proven his reliability yet._

Ash sighed as he rolled up the sleeves of his chosen shirt and then reached over to open the door, extinguishing the mage-light with a casual finger snap. _Don’t draw attention or raise a stink yet_ , he concluded, _not until I have better information. I will be Harry Potter._

_Ah,_ skvetch _, I hope I haven’t swapped lives with the real Harry…_

* * *

Walking into the kitchen, Ash quickly smothered a frown at the sight of all the wrapped presents burying the table in the breakfast nook, including what was obviously a bicycle leaning against the side. _Cousin Dudley wallows in material goods_ , Ash noted, _while Harry sleep under the stairs. Point to Letters’mn._

Vernon Dursley entered the kitchen a few minutes after Ash got to work on the bacon. “Comb your hair,” the large, mustachioed man barked reflexively as he sat down and opened the morning paper. Ash made a non-committal noise and flipped the bacon one last time, thinking more about the likelihood of getting away with claiming a fair portion of breakfast for himself.

When Dudley made his grand entrance to the kitchen, looking like a pig in a blonde wig and pajamas, Ash decided to take a chance on leaving a few rashers in the pan a little too long before starting on the eggs. If there was burnt bacon, there was chance he’d get “stuck” with it as a punishment.

The Dursleys ignored Ash’s act of minor rebellion as Dudley counted up his presents. “Thirty six?” the boy exclaimed, glaring at his parents. “That’s two less than last year!”

_Kid can count, at least,_ Ash thought as he dished up the bacon and eggs – making sure to include a piece of burnt bacon on Petunia and Vernon’s plates while keeping the rest of the “failures” for himself and giving Dudley only the best pieces. Petunia gave him a hard glare when she noticed and, as hoped, slipped her burnt piece onto Ash’s plate. Vernon was too busy trying to placate his son to notice.

“Ah, you haven’t counted the present from Aunt Marge, Dudders,” Vernon said, digging the parcel in question out from under a larger present. “That makes thirty-seven!”

“Ok, thirty-seven then,” Dudley said, but his temper was still visibly rising. Ash figured it might be prudent to to get out of the kid’s reach and wolfed down his eggs while bracing to leap from the table.

“How about this, precious,” Petunia chimed in quickly, “when we go out today, we’ll buy you two more presents. Will that be ok?”

The evil glint faded from Dudley’s eyes and he settled down into his chair. “Yeah, ok,” he said, and immediately began tearing the wrapping off his presents.

_And next year_ , Ash thought, rolling his eyes as he pulled his plate away from a flying scrap of paper, _forty presents, most likely. We’ll have the kitchen filled completely by the time he hits college._ He finished his breakfast and got up, hoping to get out of sight and observe the family in relative peace. So far, nobody had demonstrated any potential for magic, but it was early yet and Ash wasn’t ready to press his luck.

The phone rang as Ash was rinsing off his plate, pulling Petunia’s attention away from the gift-wrap carnage. She went into the other room to answer it, curtly telling “Harry” to start washing the dishes, and came back as Dudley was unwrapping his final gift. “Bad news, Vernon,” Petunia said. “Mrs. Figg has broken her leg, so she can’t take the boy this afternoon.”

“How terrible!” Ash said. He’d been hoping to meet the alleged crazy cat lady, although this development did throw further doubt onto the reliability of the mysterious letter. “Poor Mrs. Figg.”

Vernon shot Ash a look that conveyed doubt in the boy’s sincerity, while Petunia’s glare accused Ash of somehow being responsible for Mrs. Figg’s accident. “Well, what should we do about him?” Petunia asked, jerking her head at Ash. “Should we phone Marge?”

“Nonsense,” Vernon replied. “She hates the boy.” Ash quirked an eyebrow as he bent his head over the sink. “What about your friend… er, Yvonne? Could she take him?”

“She’s in Majorca,” Petunia said.

“I could go over to Mrs. Figg’s anyway,” Ash suggested. “Somebody should look after her cats until she gets back from the doctor’s, don’t you think?”

Vernon snorted. “And come back to find half the street blown up?” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“Have I ever blown _anything_ up before?” Ash asked, half sarcastic and half legitimately curious.

Vernon’s mustache bristled. “That’s enough out of you, boy!” he snapped, and then turned to his wife. “There’s nothing for it. We’ll just have to take him with us.”

“No!” Dudley screamed, seizing the table and, evidently, trying to flip it and failing only because he couldn’t find enough leverage to shift it and the pile of presents. Instead, Dudley threw himself on the floor, bawling, “I don’t want him to come! Don’t let him come!”

_Brat_ , Ash thought as Vernon and Petunia both swept down to try and contain their son’s tantrum before he started throwing things. Ash washed the remaining plates with haste and withdrew from the kitchen, figuring that Dudley would calm quicker if he couldn’t see the source of his disdain.

In the end, and despite more tantrums from Dudley and one more attempt by Ash to convince the Dursleys to just leave him home alone, it was decided that “Harry” would indeed have the dubious honor of accompanying Dudley and one of his friends, Piers, to the zoo. As Ash was following Dudley and Piers out to the car, Vernon pulled him aside and leaned down so his large, purple face was inches from Ash’s own. “Now I’m warning you,” Vernon said, “if anything _funny_ happens today, you’ll be in that closet until Christmas. Understood?”

Ash met the glare with the stoic expression he was so well known for in his old life. “Understood,” he said. “I’m a lousy comedian anyway.”

Vernon gave him a smack on the ear and pointed to the car.

_Right_ , Ash noted, sliding into the back seat, _stay out of arm’s reach when unleashing the snark._ He caught a glimpse of his, or rather Harry Potter’s, face in the rear-view mirror as he settled into the seat, and realized the scar on the forehead resembled a remarkably shapely lightning bolt. _How does one get a scar like this?_ he wondered.

* * *

Over the course of morning, Ash came to the conclusion that the Dursleys were completely lacking in magical abilities and that everything they owned was purely technological. During the car ride to the zoo, Ash tried to tune out Vernon Dursley’s running commentary on the inherent criminality of motorcycles in favor of staring out the window to try and judge the general ratio of magic to tech in the world beyond Number 4, Privet Drive. By the time the car pulled into the parking lot of the zoo, Ash was feeling conflicted. His finely-tuned sense for the natural flows of ambient magic told him that his mage-light conjuration that morning hadn’t been a fluke; there were ley-lines to spare and even some naturally-occurring Weaves around, but he hadn’t spotted anybody engaging in magic nor any Weaves with the marks of deliberate construction. There was magic in this world, but nobody was using it, so far as he could see.

_But surely there must be_ someone _else who uses magic in this world_ , Ash though as he followed the Dursleys around the zoo. _With the degree of flexibility in the elemental forces that I’m sensing, it’s unthinkable that methods of manipulating them wouldn’t have been discovered by now. The magic’s probably just hidden from the general public, for some half-baked reason. Mysterious Letters’mn was well-informed about the boy who I’m standing in for, and moving minds around is beyond the abilities of non-magical tech. I’d think it would be far harder to push my mind across the multiverse with sufficient accuracy, compared to_ pulling _me in from a point in this universe, so the_ morag _is probably somewhere I could potentially reach without having to build a portal spell first._

Ash paid no attention to the animals, and spared only enough for the Dursleys to avoid getting separated (guessing that Vernon would assume the worst should “Harry” get out of his line of sight for more than a minute) and to stay out of the reach of Dudley and Piers’s fists. His thoughts were only on trying to spot hints of active magic or signs of someone observing him. Nothing of interest happened, until after lunch, when the group went to the reptile house.

At first, everything seemed normal and Ash resigned himself to wandering slowly through the hall while Dudley and his friend rushed ahead to gawk at all the scaly and potentially deadly creatures in their glass-fronted enclosures, while Vernon and Petunia seemed confident enough to relax their vigil for once. Ash caught up with Dudley and Piers at the giant boa constrictor, but after pounding on the glass to try and make the resting snake move, Dudley stormed away, Piers in tow, declaring it to be “boring.” Ash intended to just continue his meanderings, but when he approached the constrictor's case, he saw a strange flicker of magic on the other side of the glass and paused. As he leaned in for a better look, the snake stirred, raised its head to look Ash in the eye. It _winked_ at him.

“How’d you do that?” Ash muttered _._ “I thought snakes didn’t have eyelids.”

Spitting in the face of conventional biology, the snake blinked both eyes at him.

“Keep your secrets then,” Ash said with a smirk, “if you can.” He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled slowly through his nose, slipping into a better state of mind to see and analyze the threads of magic passing through the cage.

Just as he started to open his eyes, though, he was roughly shoved aside as Piers’s shouted, “Hey! Check out what this snake is doing!”

Ash hit the ground hard and snarled. _Bothersome brat_ , he thought, opening his eyes to see Dudley and Vernon Dursley running over to look at the snake, which was clearly agitated by the commotion they were all causing. It kept moving its head around, apparently trying to catch Ash’s eye again. Anger at being interrupted welled up inside of Ash, but he forced it down before it could cloud his judgment. As much as he was coming to loathe the Dursleys, he was stuck in the body of a small boy who had nobody but the Dursleys to depend on. He had to play it cool until he could find the right way to assert himself without suffering immediate reprisals.

Ash picked himself up off the ground, casting a side-long look at the boa constrictor cage. Piers was telling Dudley and Vernon something, but Ash didn’t pay them any attention. He didn’t have a chance of seeing anything worthwhile with those three in the way, so he turned to walk away and hope for another opportunity to arise later. He’d only taken a single step when his arm was suddenly seized by a large, rough hand and he found himself being hauled out of the building.

Once they were outside and nobody was walking by, Vernon spun Ash and shoved his back up against the wall. “What were you doing?” Vernon hissed.

“Could you be more specific please?” Ash responded flatly.

“With that snake, boy!” Vernon said.

“I was just talking,” Ash said. “I don’t see any signs that say ‘do not talk to the animals.’”

Vernon jabbed a finger at Ash. “Don’t get smart with me. Piers said he heard you _hissing_ at it.”

“No I wasn’t!” Ash blurted out, confused and insulted.

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Vernon snarled. “I warned you, any funny business-”

“What’s so ‘funny’ about a kid making hissing sounds at a snake anyway, Uncle Vernon?” Ash cut in, hoping to defuse the situation.

Vernon fumed, but he didn’t respond immediately. After several seconds of trying and failing to find any fault in Ash’s logic, he backed off and said, “Fine, but I’m keeping a close eye on you.” And true to his word, Vernon didn’t let Ash out of his sight for even a second for the rest of the visit. Ash was upset at losing the chance to properly check the magic energy around the boa constrictor, but he didn’t let it show.

There would be other opportunities.


	2. The Letters

As the month of June came to its end, Ash the Pragmagic was starting to reach the end of his patience. Being Harry Potter was neither fun nor enlightening. Over the two weeks since he’d woken up in the closet under the stairs, Ash had managed to rule out all three of the Dursleys from being the author of the mysterious letter that had given Ash his introduction to the world. Dudley was a spoiled bully whose main sources of entertainment were throwing tantrums to get his way, abusing his birthday gifts such that most of them were broken or bent before July, and attempting to beat up his skinny cousin. Luckily for Ash, Harry Potter was built for speed and agility, so avoiding Dudley’s fists wasn’t much of a challenge. Even assuming Dudley possessed the magic and intelligence to execute a mind-swap across universes, he had no reason to do it to Harry.

Petunia and Vernon were also disqualified on the grounds of lacking any magical talent, and they took it further by being staunchly anti-magic. They never spoke of their attitude in such bald terms, but it was clear in their comments and threats to Ash. Vernon was particularly bad, shouting at Ash for showing even the smallest inkling of an imagination. Ash had been locked in the cupboard for a full day once just for making a passing comment about a sci-fi television show he’d managed to catch a glimpse of.

Ash spent what little free, unsupervised time he could get trying to find a way to get out from under the Dursleys permanently, but to no avail. Harry Potter had a poor reputation among the neighbors; whether due to the Dursley’s efforts or Harry’s own escapades pre-Ash, it mattered little. None of the kids in the area would have anything to do with him, out of fear that Dudley would target them, and the there were no allies to be found among the adults. The mysterious Mrs. Figg remained a possibility, although thanks to her broken leg she never seemed to be in the right mood for Ash to really approach her.

All in all, Ash felt ready to burst. It was growing harder by the day to stick to his convictions, to remain patient, and to reign in his temper. The Dursleys were awful, true, but they hadn’t crossed the line, hadn’t done anything that would let Ash justify unleashing his magic on them yet. He wouldn’t be able to face his friends if he gave in to his anger over nasty words and short rations, especially if doing so would only put the real Harry Potter into a worse situation once he and Ash were restored to their original lives.

Granted, it would probably take a while to track down Mysterious Letters’mn even without the baggage of societal norms…

Before Ash reached his limit, however, an outlet finally arrived with the morning mail. When Vernon told him to go fetch the mail, Ash complied simply as an excuse to get out of the kitchen for a minute. There were three pieces of mail sitting below the mail flap. The first had the look of a bill, while the second was hand-addressed to Vernon with a postmark from the Isle of Wight. The third letter, however, made Ash pause for a second look. It was a thick, well-stuffed envelope made from parchment, lacking a stamp, postmark, or return address, and written boldly in emerald-green ink was:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

Ash had never seen any mail addressed to Harry Potter before, and could think of no reason why anyone would be writing him now, especially using old parchment. Puzzling over it, Ash went back to the kitchen and handed Vernon the other two envelopes. Vernon tossed the bill aside contemptuously and opened the other envelope. As he read it and commented on its contents (a vacation report from Marjorie Dursley) to his family, Ash surreptitiously sidled toward the hall with the letter to Harry in his hand.

He was inches from the door when Dudley noticed his behavior. “Mum! Dad! Look!” the fat child said, pointing, “Harry’s got something!”

Ash tried to bolt, but Vernon somehow managed to leap out of his chair and cross the room to seize Ash’s arm before he took three steps. “What do you have there?” Vernon asked.

“It’s addressed to me,” Ash said, holding the envelope protectively against his chest.

“Who’d be sending _you_ anything?” Vernon asked, snatching the envelope and shoving Ash away.

“Hey!” Ash snapped, “It’s a crime to read other people’s mail, you know.” He made a grab for the letter.

“Shut up,” Vernon said, shoving Ash back again and quickly tearing the envelope open. His eyes scanned the first page, and the color drained from his face. His eyes darted to Ash, and then to Dudley, who was approaching from the other side, and barked, “Out! Out, both of you!” Passing the letter off to his wife, Vernon hurled both of the boys out of the kitchen by their pants and slammed the door in their faces. Ash and Dudley shared a bemused look, their first-ever moment of being on the same side, and then scuffled briefly for the right to listen through the keyhole. Dudley’s greater mass won out, and Ash reluctantly dropped to the floor to try and listen through the crack under the door.

“Look at the address,” Petunia was saying, her voice quivering. “How could they know where he sleeps?!”

“They must be watching the house,” Vernon muttered. “Spying. Might be following us.”

_Not that I’ve noticed_ , Ash thought.

“But what should we do, Vernon?” Petunia asked. “Write them back? Tell them we don’t want-” She stopped suddenly, as if afraid to give voice to the rest of her sentence.

For several seconds, there was only the sound of Vernon’s shoes pacing on the kitchen floor. At length, he declared, “No, we’ll just ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… yes. That would be best.”

“But...”

“I won’t have one in this house, Petunia!” Vernon roared. “Didn’t we swear when we took him in that we’d stamp that nonsense out?”

Ash sat up, perching on the balls of his feet. _Intriguing,_ he thought. _That could be my ticket out._ He looked up to see Dudley giving him a very odd look, and returned it with a smirk. “You’re as curious as I am about that letter, huh?” he asked.

“Who would write anything to _you_?” Dudley asked.

“That’s a yes,” Ash said, standing up. “What do you say we call a truce, Cousin? Instead of fighting, we work together to try and get that letter. Once we’ve both read it, then we go back to normal. Deal?” He held out his hand.

Dudley’s pudgy face was a study in contradictory feelings. Getting along with his favorite punching bag was not how things were supposed to go, but neither was his father not letting him in on tormenting Harry. Finally, he grasped Ash’s hand. “Deal.”

Unfortunately for the uneasy alliance, they had no chance of succeeding that day. Vernon took the letter with him when he left for work, and when he returned that evening it was nowhere to be found. Ash climbed into his cupboard at the end of the day, hoping that whoever had sent the letter would be interested enough to follow up when they didn’t get a response. To his surprise, Vernon walked up and grabbed the door before Ash could close it.

“Had second thoughts about stealing my mail?” Ash asked.

Vernon grunted and averted his gaze. “It wasn’t for you,” he said lamely. “Mistaken address.”

“Oh, so there’s another ‘H. Potter’ living under someone’s stairs in this town?” Ash replied, sarcastic.

Vernon’s grip on the door tightened, and he said, in a strained tone, “About this cupboard… Your aunt and I… We think you’re starting to get a little big for it. Might be… better if you were to move into Dudley’s spare room.”

“Wow,” Ash drawled, “that sentence must have _painful_ for you.”

“Watch it,” Vernon snarled. “I can still lock you in up there, you know.”

Ash shrugged. “Eh, it’s a step up either way,” he said, and started gathering up his meager belongings.

At first glance, Dudley’s “spare room” looked more like a graveyard for broken and abandoned hobbies, albeit one with a functional bed that Vernon was too lazy to haul out just to deny Ash the use of it. As another plus, the window looked out over the front yard, which would make a decent escape route if things came to a boil. The only downside was that, truce or not, Dudley was not happy about the move, so Ash was forced to endure several hours of “I don’t want him in there! It’s _my_ room! Make him get out!” echoing through the walls that night. Ash tried to make the best of it by moving as much of Dudley’s broken crap as possible into one corner before trying to sleep, but Dudley’s tantrum stamina outlasted that by a good two hours.

At last, Ash was able to drift to sleep on a proper bed, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait too long for destiny to try knocking again.

The next morning, Dudley kicked off a fresh round of tantrums that resulted in a few bruised shins, a tiny bit of property damage, and a tortoise achieving ballistic flight through the greenhouse roof, but the adults steadfastly refused to return his second room to him. When the mail came, Vernon told Dudley to go get it, either as a token punishment for his behavior or – more likely in Ash’s opinion – to deny “Harry” the chance to claim to any letters addressed to him, unlikely as it was that any would show up so soon.

Yet, within minutes of Dudley leaving the kitchen, his voice rang out, “Hey! There’s another one! Mr. H. Potter, the smallest bedroom-” Vernon and Ash both took off, but Vernon reached the door first and Ash was unable to squeeze past his large frame in time to grab the letter. Vernon tore the letter up without opening it as he stormed past Ash into the living room and threw the parchment into the fireplace.

“Smooth move, Dudders,” Ash deadpanned. “I think there were some people in Scotland who didn’t hear you.”

“Shut up, Potter,” Dudley snarled, socking Ash in the shoulder.

Two data points wasn’t enough to be sure of a pattern, but since the letters had come on two consecutive days and the address had updated to fit “Mr. H. Potter’s” change of sleeping quarters, Ash felt it was worth trying to sneak downstairs early and camp by the mail slot on the third morning. He was disappointed to discover that Vernon had had the same thought, although stepping on the man’s stomach in the dark did provide a small bit of satisfaction, as did seeing _four_ of the letters slip through the mail slot this time. All four went into the fire before Ash could do anything, but he went through the day with a rising sense of confidence that made his “relatives” wary.

“What are you so happy about?” Dudley asked him that afternoon.

“They’re escalating,” Ash replied. “Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, there should be too many letters for Uncle Vernon to handle all at once.”

When Vernon came home that evening, he was carrying a board which he proceeded to nail over the mail slot, giving Ash smug looks as he did so. Ash just raised his eyebrow in response every time. It was truly to be a battle of willpower and endurance, then.

Ash got up extra early the next day and went to his window. At this point, he wasn’t too worried about getting his hands on a letter eventually, so he was content to just watch the mailman’s reaction to finding the mail slot blocked this morning. It would be a bit of entertainment, and if the mailman were enough of a stickler about procedure…

Ash rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing things clearly. The front yard was full of owls. A full parliament of at least six different kinds of owls, each carrying one of the familiar-looking envelopes in its beak. Ash opened the window and leaned out to see one owl studiously jamming a letter at the mail slot until it managed to slip past the board enough to stick. The owl then flew back as another approached to repeat the process.

_Well trained birds_ , Ash thought, _and determined. I wonder…_ He let out a low whistle, and over a dozen pairs of large, round eyes swiveled up to look at him. “Hey there hoot-hoots,” Ash said in a low tone, “if those are for me-” He leaped back with a strangle cry as the entire flock took flight and fought their way through the window. Soon, there was an owl on every perch-able surface in the room and a pile of parchment at Ash’s feet. “Nice,” Ash said, looking around. “Uh… Thank you. You don’t have to stick around… do you?” _Not sure I want the Dursleys seeing all this, even with victory on my side._

The owls shuffled and looked around for a bit, and eventually all but one hopped over to the window and flew away. The last owl, of the screech variety, perched on the sill and looked down at the letters, then up at Ash with a grumpy click of its beak.

“Give me a second here,” Ash said, picking the top envelope off of the pile. He turned it over to the back, took a second to admire the purple wax seal stamped with a crest – a large H surrounded by a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle – before breaking it and unfolding the papers within. The top sheet of parchment bore the same handwriting and emerald ink as the address, and it said:

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._
> 
> _Term begins on September 1 st. We expect your owl by no later than July 31st._
> 
> _Yours Sincerely,_
> 
> _Minerva McGongall,_
> 
> _Deputy Headmistress_

The rest of the parchment below the signature was blank, so Ash tore it off and set it aside. The other parchment pages contained the promised list of books and equipment, which included a telescope, a wand, a cauldron, and measuring scales among other things. There was also what looked like a fancy train ticket sandwiched between the lists. “A wand,” Ash mused with a frown, setting the ticket aside for the moment. “Not the kind of focus item I’d choose, but...”

The owl clicked its beak again, louder, and Ash gave it a hard look. “Keep your feathers on,” he told it. “I need to find a pen first.” Somehow, the owl managed to make itself look more disgruntled, but settled itself into a more comfortable position as Ash headed for the door. Just before turning the knob, however, Ash remembered his deal with Dudley and went back to the pile to grab another letter. After opening the envelope to check that it was just another copy, Ash tucked it under his arm and opened the door enough to peek out. He didn’t see anyone moving about, so he crept out into the hall and down the stairs. Vernon was confident enough in the boarded mail slot that he hadn’t slept by the front door again, so Ash as able to get into the sitting room and snatch the pen sitting by the phone and get back upstairs with ease.

As he crept back to his room, he paused only long enough to slip the letter under Dudley’s door and knock twice. The young Dursley may have been an entitled brat of the highest order, but Ash the Pragmagic always kept his promises. Besides, Dudley’s reaction to the letter might buy Ash a little extra time.

Back in his bedroom, Ash shut the door and finally dared to call up his magic for the first time in weeks. Weaving the threads of energy that swirled around the room, he crafted a spell that would reinforce the entire door, including the lock, hinges, and frame, so that nobody could just burst through. Then, Ash spread the piece of blank parchment he’d torn off the acceptance letter out on the bed and knelt down to consider what to write.

He was going to accept the invitation to attend Hogwarts, of course. He didn’t think he really needed any instruction in magic, since the Weaves he’d tried had been as easy to complete as they ever were, but this school would obviously be his gateway to whatever secret magic society existed in this world, and from there he could hopefully find the resources he needed to track down the Mysterious Letters’mn and get answers. Of course, everyone else expected him to just be Harry Potter ( _Nothing special. HA!_ ), and Harry Potter would have a particular set of obstacles to overcome just to get to Hogwarts in the first place.

Putting pen to parchment, Ash wrote:

> _Dear Deputy Headmistress McGongall,_
> 
> _I am overjoyed to learn I’ve been accepted into your school and I am eager to attend._
> 
> _However, there are some complications to my situation you should be aware of and that I hope you can help me with. First and foremost, my current guardians do not seem to think favorably of magic and I suspect they will be strongly opposed to me attending Hogwarts. Given the persistence involved in getting my acceptance letter to me, I am holding onto hope that you have a means to get around this._
> 
> _Secondly, as a result of the previous point, I anticipate some difficulties in acquiring my school supplies on my own. I have no money to my name, and am unlikely to get any assistance from my obstructive guardians._
> 
> _If you can provide assistance, I’ll gladly accept it._
> 
> _Hoping to hear from you soon,_
> 
> _~~As~~ Harry Potter_

Ash frowned at his error in nearly signing his own name, and scribbled it out until it was just a black smudge of ink. He let the letter sit for a bit to dry, and flinched when he heard a knock on his door. “Who is it?” Ash asked, quickly folding the letter up.

“It’s me, you prat,” Dudley whispered from the other side of the door.

Ash blinked in surprise. _He didn’t shout it to the heavens this time? Maybe there’s some proper sense buried under all that fat after all._ He went over to the owl and held out the letter. The owl took it in its beak and bowed before turning around and leaping out the window. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ash said as Dudley knocked again. He undid the lock and jumped to the side as Dudley came barreling in, waving his copy of the acceptance letter.

“Is this real?” Dudley demanded. “You’re going to a _magic_ school?”

“Hopefully, yes,” Ash said.

“You’re not making fun of me, are you?”

Ash pointed to the pile of unopened letters on the floor. “I got like ten more that probably all say the same thing.”

Dudley went over to the pile and tore a couple more envelopes open. He compared the letters for a few minutes, and then whirled on Ash. “So all that weird stuff Mum and Dad always punish you for, that was magic?”

“Aye,” Ash said simply, readying himself for anything.

Dudley blinked a few times, and then scowled. “Why you?” he asked. “Why do you get to do magic and I can’t? Er, can’t I?”

Ash tilted his head and focused on his magic sense. He’d been relatively sure Dudley wasn’t gifted with magic ability, but it could be hard to tell when a person wasn’t actively casting. Still, the magic Ash could sense didn’t seem to be reacting to Dudley’s presence in any noteworthy way. “I don’t think you can, Dudley,” he said. “If you could, you would probably have gotten one of those letters yourself.”

“That’s not fair!” Dudley whined. “I wanna-”

“Newsflash, but you actually can’t get everything you want, Dudley,” Ash snapped. “Frankly, compared to me, you’ve already got all the advantages you’ll ever need.”

“I… I’ll tell Dad not to let you go.”

“I think he’s already decided to say no,” Ash pointed out. “What with all the effort to keep the letters away from me. Anyway, I already sent a reply back telling the school yes, and I think they want me bad enough to walk right over your parents to get me there if necessary.”

Dudley’s mouth worked soundlessly for a while, digesting that. _I wonder what he’s seen from the real Harry…_ Ash though.

“It’s not fair,” Dudley finally concluded, pouting.

Ash sighed. “It probably isn’t,” he said. “Tell you what, though: don’t get in my way with this, and I’ll try my best to find something magical that you’ll be able to learn or use.”

Dudley gave him a strange look. “Really?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because despite how much of a spoiled rotten bully you are, Dudley, I don’t really hate you.”

Dudley’s face screwed up as his eleven-year-old brain tried to puzzle out that twisted bit of morality, but eventually he just shook his head and said, “You’re weird, Harry, but ok. Promise to bring me something good from your magic school, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of summer.”

“You have my word,” Ash said, smiling.

* * *

For all his bravado, Vernon Dursley was not altogether certain that boarding up his mail slot would actually stop the blasted letters. He made a point of having nothing to do with the freakish “magical” underworld his wife’s sister had been caught up in, but he’d gleaned enough from Petunia’s stories to know that those people could be more stubborn and persistent than door-to-door preachers. He was thus pleasantly surprised when he walked down the stairs that morning and saw no parchment envelopes sticking through the doorjamb, nor any on the front stoop when he peeked outside. Perhaps they’d finally taken the hint after all.

Vernon’s happy musings were cut tragically short when he entered the kitchen. The first thing he registered was that Dudley was already awake and sitting at the table; the boy always took full advantage of the summer holidays to lie in until hunger drove him down to breakfast. The second thing Vernon noticed was the stack of parchment envelopes sitting on the table in front of Dudley. With a cry, Vernon surged across the floor and swept the stack up, not realizing until he’d seized them all that none of them were opened and that Dudley hadn’t made a move to protect them. “Dudders,” Vernon said carefully, “you haven’t got any more of these on you?”

“No,” Dudley replied, “but Harry does.”

“WHAT?!”

Taking that outburst as a cue, the cursed boy’s voice came sailing down from upstairs, full of smug satisfaction: “Dear Mr. Potter, we are pleased to inform you-”

“ARRRGH!” Vernon screamed, running back out to the foot of the stairs. Harry was standing at the top, leaning against the wall with a massive grin on his face as he waved a piece of green-lettered parchment. With another wordless cry of rage, Vernon charged up the stairs, but Harry was already bolting for his room, ducking under Petunia’s grasping hands as she tried to pounce on him from the master bedroom. The boy made it into his own room and locked the door before Vernon could reach him, and the door remained in place even when Vernon threw his whole weight against it. “Boy!” Vernon shouted, pounding on the door, “You give me that letter right now! And everything else they sent you!”

“Nothing doing,” Ash replied. “Shame on you for trying to withhold this. I’m going to Hogwarts.”

“You are not!” Vernon shouted. “I will not have any unnaturalness in this house, do you hear me? I forbid you to go!”

“I already sent them a letter telling them yes,” Ash said, sing-song.

Vernon growled. “Ha, you don’t really think it’s that simple, do you, boy?” he asked. “I’m not spending a single penny for you to go, and I’m certainly not going to let you out of this house!”

“Yeah,” Ash said, nonchalant, “I thought you might say something like that, and I told Hogwarts as much in my reply. We’ll just have to wait and see what they have to say about your refusal to support my educational obligations.”

“No breakfast!” Vernon snapped. “No meals until you apologize and swear to give this up!”

“Stop that, Dad.”

Vernon jerked in shock and whirled to see Dudley standing behind him, wearing his best angry pout. “Stop…?” Vernon asked dumbly.

“Stop being mean to Harry.”

The gears in Vernon’s brain ground to a halt for several seconds, and then he turned back to the door and started trying to force it open again. “What have you done to my son?!” he screamed.

“He said he’d bring me some cool magic stuff if he goes to that school,” Dudley said. Petunia gasped and grabbed Dudley by the arm, pulling him away despite his protests as Vernon continued to assault the door.

Inside the bedroom, Ash shook his head and leaned his back against the door. Skvetch _, this is going to be a real endurance test_ , he thought. Calling up his magic, he renewed the spell to prevent the door from being broken open and went to lie down and wait until Vernon’s rage was spent. Just as he was settling onto the bed, an owl flew in through his still-open window and dropped an envelope on his head without landing. It was a lot thinner than the Hogwarts letters, but it was addressed to Harry Potter in the same hand and emerald ink and sealed with the same wax crest. Ripping it open, Ash extracted the letter inside and, sensing a lull in Vernon’s pounding, decided to read it aloud through the door.

“Hey Uncle Vernon, Hogwarts just sent me something else.”

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _We are already aware that you might have some difficulties in getting yourself to Hogwarts this term. Hogwarts has a long-standing tradition of sending staff members out to assist first-year students from non-magical backgrounds in navigating the magical quarter of London. Given your present family situation, you technically qualify for this assistance. Your escorts will arrive at your house this Saturday at 8 am. They will help you convince your aunt and uncle to permit you to attend school._
> 
> _As to your second concern, you do not need to worry. Money will not be an issue for you, Mr. Potter._
> 
> _Your Sincerely,_
> 
> _Minerva McGonagall_

“Got to admire their promptness, at least,” Ash quipped.

“I refuse to submit to this… this...” Vernon spluttered.

“Oh, give it a rest already,” Ash snapped. “These people are bound and determined to have me as a student, and I’ve got _Dudley_ taking my side. When has _that_ ever happened?”

Vernon slammed a fist against the door one last time, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. “You ungrateful… Fine. If you undo whatever… _witchcraft_ you put on Dudley, then I’ll listen to whatever freaks they send on Saturday.”

Ash decided to risk opening the door so he could give Vernon a patronizing look. “I have done nothing to your son,” Ash said, “except what you and Aunt Petunia do all the time: appease his greedy little heart with the promise of goodies in exchange for not adding new holes to the walls.”

Vernon glared at the skinny little boy for several seconds, but when he continued to hold his ground with a fearless expression, Vernon gave up and stormed away. Somehow, after ten years of being easily tamed and controlled, the freak had suddenly developed a spine and a sharp tongue and Vernon had no idea how it could have happened. Even “magic” seemed like an inadequate excuse.


	3. Diagon Alley

There was a persistent tension inside Number 4 Privet Drive through the remainder of the week. Ash actually felt more comfortable now that his magic had been openly acknowledged by everyone in the house, but he still restrained himself from weaving any spells in front of Vernon and Petunia because the two of them – and Vernon especially – were acting so twitchy that Ash worried they might explode into violence at the slightest provocation. Ash doubted it would go over well if the escorts from Hogwarts arrived to find evidence of combat spells around the house (for he would defend himself if anyone raised a hand to strike him).

Dudley, to everyone’s surprise, actually stayed true to his promise not bully “Harry,” but he was still an outspoken spoiled brat. In lieu of trying to beat up his cousin, and willfully ignorant of the tenuous truce between Ash and the adults, he would frequently demand demonstrations of magic or ask questions that Ash didn’t know the answers to and his parents refused to comment on if _they_ did. Ash did his best to tide Dudley over with little bits of prestidigitation when the two were alone, but those moments were few and far between because Vernon and Petunia were constantly on the lookout for “corrupting influences” on Ash’s part.

Saturday morning found Ash sitting at the foot of the stairs while the Dursleys sat in the living room in their best outfits. Vernon and Petunia may not have liked the idea of any magical types coming to their house, but they were determined to at least look their best. Dudley was squirming with barely restrained frustration; his parents had made him dress up in an attempt to dissuade him from begging to go with Harry to wherever he was bound today. Ash was waiting on the stairs in order to, as Vernon had put it, “try and get any weirdness over with before I have to look at them.”

At eight o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang and Ash leaped up to answer it. He had a little welcome speech prepared, but it fled from his mind when he saw the two figures standing outside. The woman at the door wasn’t particularly weird aside from her outfit – a set of scarlet robes and a matching pointed hat that simply screamed “I’m a witch.” Her hair was black and looked like it was pulled back tight, probably into a bun under her hat, which emphasized the stern wrinkles around her eyes, although the downward turn of her lips seemed more a product of concern than disapproval as she looked Ash over. What had given Ash a shock was the man standing behind her. He was enormous; ten feet tall or more and broad in every other measurement, with wild black hair and a thick beard that almost hid the rest of his face, and dressed in a massive moleskin overcoat that looked almost more like a patchwork of pockets with sleeves than a normal coat. In contrast to his imposing size, the man’s beetle-black eyes were bright and friendly, and Ash thought he saw tears starting form in them as they met Ash’s own.

“Um… Hello,” Ash said, realizing he’d been silent for an awkward amount of time.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” the witch said, a light Scots accent coloring her businesslike diction, a rare smile gracing her lips. “I am Professor McGonagall.”

“Professor… _Minerva_ McGonagall, I presume?” Ash blurted, surprised.

“That is correct, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall answered. She turned and indicated the giant and said, “and this is Reubeus Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts.”

“‘Ello, Harry,” Hagrid said, grinning. “Been a while since I seen ya.”

_Oh no_ , Ash thought, _does Harry Potter already know him?!_ That could make things awkward.

“If you don’t mind,” McGonagall continued, not noticing Ash’s look of panic, “I would like to have a few words with your… relatives before we depart.”

“Ah,” Ash said, schooling his features and stepping aside, “yes, please come in. They’re in the living room.”

“Thank you,” McGonagall nodded politely and stepped up to the threshold. She looked back at Hagrid, who was looking uncertain about squeezing through the door himself, and said, “If you want, Mr. Potter, you may remain out here with Hagrid. He can give you your introductions to the magical world while I discuss matters with your guardians.”

Ash weighed his options quickly. McGonagall looked like the kind of woman who could put the Dursleys in their place, and he wasn’t exactly eager to witness that battle of wills if he could avoid it. On the other hand, Hagrid apparently had a history with Harry Potter which would likely call for great care on Ash’s part if he didn’t want to arouse too much suspicion yet. There were advantages to being underestimated, after all, even by ostensible allies. Still, if he could get an overview of the magical community without interruptions from the Dursleys, it would be worth the mental gymnastics. “I’ll stay out here, ma’am,” he said.

McGonagall nodded and headed inside. Ash stepped out onto the stoop and looked up awkwardly as Hagrid approached. “So...” Ash said, “I’m not sure I remember-”

Hagrid chuckled. “Nah, ‘course you wouldn’ remember me, Harry,” he said. “You were jus’ a baby last time I saw ya.” He clapped a hand on Ash’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over, and his face grew solemn. “Probably best you don’ remember it,” he said. “It weren’t a very happy day, no matter what everyone else may think.”

“What do you mean?” Ash asked.

“Yeh don’t know?” Hagrid asked, surprised. His gaze hardened as he directed it toward the house. “Mebbe the Professor was right; the muggles didn’t tell ya anythin’ about your parents, did they?”

“Muggles?”

“Non-magic folk,” Hagrid answered.

_Oh, they have an actual word for that!_ Ash thought. _Better than just calling them “Mundane” or something._ “I was told my parents died in a car crash,” he said. Calling the Potters “my parents” left a bitter taste on Ash’s tongue, but he wasn’t about to risk derailing such an informative conversation by breaking character.

“CAR CRASH?!” Hagrid exploded. “A car crash killed Lily and James Potter?! Preposterous! I oughta...” He unclenched his fists and took a deep breath. “Professor McGonagall’s probably givin’ them what-for about tha’ already,” he said.

“So, what’s the real story?” Ash prompted.

Hagrid sighed and sat down on the walk, motioning Ash to do the same. “I’m not sure I’m the right one to tell yeh, Harry, but yeh do need to know before yeh get to Hogwarts. Every witch and wizard in England knows yer story already; it’d be a scandal if you didn’.” Ash nodded and waited patiently as Hagrid tried to find the right words. “See,” the giant man said at last, “back in the day, long afore you were even born, there was… trouble. A dark wizard was goin’ round spreading fear and terror all ‘cross the country, raisin’ himself an army of wizards that agreed wit’ him, tryin’ the take over the Ministry. Good wizards tried to fight him, o’ course, but he was powerful. Weren’t nobody that could stand against him in a straight duel, except Dumbledore, and You-Know-Who was smart enough to avoid him.

“Yer parents were some of th’ ones standing against You-Know-Who. Two of the bravest, they were, and You-Know-Who decided he had to take them out personally. He broke inta their house on Halloween and killed ‘em both. Then he went after you.”

Ash blinked. “How am I still alive, then?” he asked.

“Not sure,” Hagrid admitted. “You were jus’ a baby, after all, but fer some reason when You-Know-Who cast the killing curse on yeh, it backfired. Blew up the house. I was the one who pulled yeh out of the wreckage, and weren’t a thing wrong with you, aside from that scar on yer forehead.”

Ash looked askance at Hagrid. “So, you’re saying I’m famous just because a dark wizard botched a spell at precisely the right time.”

“Er, pretty much, I guess,” Hagrid said, bemused at the boy’s subdued reaction.

“So, what happened to the bad guy?” Ash asked. “Did the rebound kill him?”

“Mos’ people think so,” Hagrid said. “Me, I’m not so sure. You-Know-Who-”

“I actually don’t ‘Know Who,’ Hagrid,” Ash cut in. “Who was this murder-happy _morag_ that you’re not comfortable naming? I think I deserve to know.”

Hagrid grimaced, and Ash gave him a hard stare until he relented. “Fine. I don’ like ta say it, but yer right, yeh do deserve to know. His name was… V-voldemort.”

“Voldemort,” Ash repeated softly, trying out the sounds. “And you don’t think he died back then?”

“Dumbledore doesn’t think so,” Hagrid said, “and I believe Dumbledore. We reckon he was hurt pretty bad, at least; enough to still be hidin’ out somewhere.”

_And with my stellar luck…_ Ash thought grimly. He took note of Hagrid’s aggrieved expression and decided to change the subject. “Thank you for that Hagrid,” he said. “Now, what else do I need to know to not look the fool among wizards?”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about on that front, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said from behind Ash, starling him. Ash leaped to his feet and whirled around to see her standing in the doorway, looking a bit annoyed. “I must say,” she declared, scooting past Ash and heading down the walk, “you aunt and uncle seem to be just as disagreeable as they were when you were left in their care! There are a few small things that we offer to muggle families to enable them to stay involved in the lives of their magical children – or nephew in your case – but they rejected them all out of hand!”

“That’s not surprising,” Ash said, following after her. “Though I think I might be able to bring them around eventually if I can keep Dudley thinking that I’m cool.”

McGonagall gave Ash a guarded look over her shoulder as she reached the curb and stopped. “That is why I think you will do fine in our world, Mr. Potter,” she said, “although I must warn you that we have strict laws about which muggles are permitted to know that magic exists. In your case, that includes only your family.”

_I do not like the sound of that_ , Ash thought immediately. _Insularity like that does not lend itself to the kind of lateral thinking I may need to construct a trans-universal portal_. Of course, that was a problem for the future, something to worry about after he was better established in the local society. “Duly noted, Professor,” he said. “Now, where do we go from here?”

“We’re headed to London to buy your school supplies,” Professor McGonagall answered as Hagrid joined them at the curb. “However,” she continued, shooting Ash an apologetic look, “since your relatives adamantly refuse to take part, we’ll have to take the Knight Bus. You may want to stand back.” Ash did so, worried, and McGonagall drew her wand and held it out like she was hailing a cab.

BANG

Ash leaped back as a garishly purple triple-decker bus appeared out of thin air, coming to a dangerously sudden stop less than an inch from the curb right in front of McGonagall. “ _Skvetch_ ,” Ash swore, drawing odd looks from Hagrid and McGonagall. “I’m sorry,” Ash drawled, “ _what_ was that about keeping magic a secret from muggles, again?”

“Ah, don’ worry,” Hagrid said dismissively as the bus’s doors opened and McGonagall started exchanging words with the pimply conductor, “they don’t notice a thing. Special enchantments and all that, y’know.”

Ash quirked an eyebrow, but when a quick look around showed that nobody on Privet Drive had come out to gawk or yell at the physics-defying bus, he grudgingly accepted the explanation. McGonagall handed some coins to the conductor and gestured for Ash and Hagrid to follow her aboard.

“Blimey!” the conductor exclaimed when Ash walked by him, “you’re ‘Arry Potter, ain’t ya?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” Ash replied flatly, and then froze when he saw that the bus was filled with a variety of mismatched easy chairs instead of benches, none of them appearing to actually be secured to the floor. “What the _skeb_ kind of bus is this?” he asked.

“It’s the Knight Bus o’ course!” the conductor said. “Weren’t’cha listening to my welcome speech?”

“No,” Ash answered flatly.

“C’mon, Harry,” Hagrid said, having managed to squeeze himself through the doors and herding Ash deeper inside by virtue of his massive size, “it’s perfectly safe. Not very pleasant,” he added in an undertone once they were halfway down the aisle, “but safe.”

[hr]

After nearly half an hour of banging about the country at ludicrous speeds, treating the sidewalks as passing lanes and traffic control with complete contempt, and with with rubbish bins, lampposts, and entire buildings appearing to leap out of their path just in time prevent catastrophe, the Knight Bus screeched to halt in front of a grubby looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross road in London. Ash was the first to stagger out onto _terra firma_ , and as soon as he felt steady enough he turned and pointed an accusing finger at the Knight Bus staff. “You people are insane,” he said. “At least bolt the chairs to the _skvetchte_ floor if you’re going to drive around like that!”

“If we did that, how’d we fit in the beds for the night shift?” the conductor asked.

Ash stood there with his mouth hanging open for several seconds, and then threw up his hands and turned away. “Insanity,” he grumbled.

“I do apologize, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, emerging from the bus and putting a calming hand on Ash’s shoulder, “but it is an unfortunate fact that when it comes to magical transportation, convenience must come as the expense of comfort.”

“That sounds like quitter’s talk to me, Professor,” Ash replied shortly. It felt good to be able to vent his frustrations out loud without having to dodge a fist or frying pan, but McGonagall’s expression had become sterner at that last comment, so Ash figured he was approaching the limits of her patience and vowed to dial it back a bit for the rest of the day. Or at least the next couple of hours.

Hagrid groaned as he squeezed out of the Knight Bus, looking a little green in the face. As soon as he was clear of it, the bus vanished with another loud BANG that made the large man flinch with headache. “Don’ suppose I could get a little pick-me-up at the pub, Professor?” Hagrid asked hopefully.

“That will be fine,” McGonagall sighed, “ _after_ we’ve gotten Mr. Potter through to the Alley.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” Hagrid said, taking the lead through the door to the pub.

The Leaky Cauldron was dark and shabby inside, and about a quarter full of people dressed in robes of various colors and all sorts of hats. The barkeeper was old, a bit wrinkled, and completely lacking in hair of any kind that Ash could see. The barkeeper and a few others looked up as Hagrid walked in, his size shielding Ash and Professor McGonagall from view for the moment. “Mornin’ Hagrid,” the barkeeper greeted, reaching for a large tankard, “the usual I presume?”

“Not jus’ yet, Tom,” Hagrid replied, stepping aside enough to reveal his companions. “Hogwarts business.”

“Good Lord!” Tom gasped, staring at Ash. “Is that… It couldn’t be?” The whole pub grew silent with shock as several sets of eyes locked onto the lightning scar on Ash’s forehead. The tableau finally broke when Tom came out from behind the bar and seized Ash’s hands in a vigorous shake. “Harry Potter,” Tom said, “it’s an honor! Welcome back, sir!” That opened the floodgates, and both Hagrid and Professor McGonagall moved quickly to flank Ash so that he only had to endure people shoving in to shake his hand and thank him from one direction as he tried to ford through the sea of bodies toward the back door.

Finally, everyone had had their fill except for one woman who Hagrid had to physically hold off because she kept coming back to shake the young hero’s hand before Ash’s group made it to the relative peace of the empty courtyard behind the pub.

_How’s that for “nothing special,” Mysterious Letters’mn?_ Ash thought wryly. “Is everyone going to be like that when they see me?” he asked.

“Not likely,” Professor McGonagall said, straightening up her hat. “The Leaky Cauldron attracts a… an excitable clientele, shall we say. I imagine you’ll at least be given your space from here on.” With that, she drew her wand and walked up to the brick wall at the back of the courtyard. Counting three bricks up and two across from the lone trashcan by the wall, she tapped the brick with her wand. A hole appeared in the brick and rapidly grew until it became a broad archway leading to a long, cobblestone road lined with shops. “There we are,” Professor McGongall said with pride. “Harry Potter, welcome to Diagon Alley, the heart of London’s magical quarter. Come along please; there’s a lot to accomplish. Hagrid, meet us outside Gringotts once you’ve had your drink.”

In Ash’s opinion, Diagon Alley was much too broad and open to the sky to qualify as a proper alley. It was more like the high street of a small town that was trying to play up its “quaint” quotient for the tourist value, except there were no tourists to be had because it was all supposed to be a secret to the masses. The shops were built close together, with only the occasional gap leading to some offshoot streets like the grimy-looking Knockturn Alley, which was certainly shady enough to be able to make a legitimate claim to the label. All the shops that Ash walked by seemed to specialize in just one or two kinds of goods – there was a store just selling cauldrons, a couple competing for the flying broomstick market, and another entirely focused on owls while the store directly across from it boasted a menagerie of pets. Put all together, Diagon Alley certainly seemed like the go-to place for all one’s magical needs.

Ash was starting to consider pulling out the supply list he’d brought and figure out the most efficient order to buy it all in when McGonagall came to a stop in front of a large, white marble building with a pair of short, swarthy humanoids with large ears, oddly long fingers, and judgmental brown eyes standing guard at either side of the burnished bronze doors, dressed in scarlet and gold livery and bearing halberds. “Goblins,” McGonagall explained shortly as the pair bowed and opened the doors to admit her and Harry.

_Taller than the Gobs I’m familiar with_ , Ash thought idly as he walked inside, _but probably just as easy to annoy by accident. I wonder if Brownies and Trolls are a thing here too, and if they’re part of the Goblin family…_ It was probably unlikely that most, if any, of the local non-human races would match up with the ones from Ash’s original world, but there was no harm in hoping.

The entry room had another pair of goblins guarding a pair of silver doors, engraved with a poem warning against theft and guile, and that was when Ash realized he was entering a bank. The goblins opened the doors, and Ash’s suspicions were confirmed. The Gringotts lobby was a wide room with barred counters lining three of the walls. Goblins sat behind the counters, a few conducting business with the humans who were already present while the remaining goblins checked through books or counted up piles of gemstones.

Professor McGonagall took Ash up to one of the available tellers and produced a golden key from her pocket. “Mr. Harry Potter needs to access his vault,” she said, handing the key to the goblin.

The goblin examined the key, and then peered over the counter at Ash for a moment. “Very well,” the goblin said, “please wait a moment.” He rang a bell and sat back on his stool until another goblin ran up with some papers in hand. “Mr. Potter,” the teller said crisply, taking the papers, “seeing as this the first time you’ve chosen to access your family vault since becoming the primary account holder, we recommend you take the time to review your holdings as soon as possible.” He gave Professor McGonagall a hard look as she opened her mouth to comment, and continued, “I expect you’ll be too busy to do it today, of course, but do return soon. We’d prefer not to wait too long to get everything back in order.”

“That’s fair,” Ash agreed. _How rich is Harry Potter supposed to be?!_

The teller goblin wrote something on the papers and handed the key over to the other goblin. “Griphook here will take you to your vault,” the teller said, and then waved them off impatiently.

Griphook led them through a door in the back of the room and down a sloped hallway to where several mine carts waited on tracks leading into an underground cavern. Once everyone was seated and Griphook took the controls, their cart set off on a fast and twisted course through a labyrinth of tunnels lined with vaults of all sizes. Despite the high speeds and the sharpness of some corners, Ash decided the experience was still superior to the Knight Bus.

At length, the ride came to an end next to a human-sized vault door and everyone got out. Griphook put the key in the lock and stood aside as he opened the door. A cloud of green smoke billowed out and quickly dissipated – likely some security measure deactivating – and Ash’s eyes bugged out. The vault was full of coins, mostly gold but including stacks of silver and a couple piles of bronze. The question that came to his mind seemed obvious, but Ash had to ask anyway, “That’s a lot of money, right?”

Professor McGonagall looked mildly amused as she answered, “Yes, Mr. Potter. Your family was quite wealthy, and now it’s all yours. Of course, you won’t need all of this to buy your school supplies.” She took a leather pouch that Griphook was holding out and led Ash inside. As McGonagall filled the pouch with coins, she explained the wizarding monetary system: the gold coins were galleons, which were worth as much as seventeen of the silver sickles, each of which equaled twenty-nine bronze knuts.

“Bit random, those denominations,” Ash couldn’t help but comment. Neither Griphook nor McGonagall seemed to have an explanation for it, so Ash resigned himself to memorizing the arbitrary numbers.

Once McGonagall was finished gathering the money Ash would need, he took the pouch for himself and added an extra handful of galleons for personal use, and then accepted the vault key from Griphook once the goblin had locked the door, and everyone got back in the cart and rode back up to the surface. Ash made sure to thank Griphook before the goblin went off to his next task, and got a strange look in return. Ash chalked that up to goblins not being used to being treated with much respect by their customers.

Hagrid met Ash and McGonagall outside the bank, looking cheerful and clear-headed again, and the trio set out to start shopping properly.

“It’s not on your list,” Professor McGonagall said, “but I highly recommend you purchase a trunk and book-bag before anything else. While the ones you can find in muggle shops would be sufficient to hold all your supplies for this year, the trunks sold here have magical options I’m sure you’ll find convenient, and it will make carrying everything today that much easier.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ash agreed.

Word must have been getting around that the death-defying wonder-child Harry Potter was in Diagon Alley, because the sales-wizard in the luggage store only stared at the scar on Ash’s forehead for a couple seconds before shaking his hand and getting down to business. The range of magical enhancements that could be added to trunks was much wider than Ash had expected. Some were enchanted to move around on their own according to spoken instructions, while others managed to squeeze in full-sized wood bookcases or revolving clothes racks. There was a range of suitcases with “muggle-friendly” levers that would swap the actual contents with an innocent range of normal-looking clothes, and the charms to expand the interior dimensions went all the way up to making the trunks more like access hatches to house-sized pocket dimensions. In the end, though, Ash settled on a fairly basic wheeled green-black trunk that was half again as large inside as it as on the outside and had a dozen pockets in the lid for organizing small objects. He also bought a messenger bag that was completely ordinary aside from a charm to make its contents lighter.

Now that Ash was equipped to carry all his purchases, Professor McGonagall revealed her suggested order to get everything, starting with the school robes at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Madam Malkin herself was a squat, smiley witch dressed in mauve, and managed to be the least star-struck person Ash had met since the Leaky Cauldron. Her glance at Ash’s scar was barely noticeable as she said, “Hogwarts, dear? Right this way.” She led Ash to the back of the shop, set him up on a stool, draped a black robe over his head, and quickly got to work taking measurements and pinning things. Her expertise at her craft was evident in how quickly she finished the sizing, but Ash was still a little surprised to find himself walking out of the store with a full week’s worth of tailored robes, a pointed hat, and a winter cloak within the space of about an hour. He suspected there was unseen magic at play in actually making the robes.

Once the robes were sorted, it was off to buy a cauldron and potion supplies, which required two separate stores. Ash frowned when he checked his school list and asked, “Does my cauldron have to be pewter? That seems like a… poor choice of metal for cooking things in. Soft and easy to melt.”

“No worries there,” the sales-witch said proudly. “All our cauldrons are enchanted to withstand the heat required for any potions taught at Hogwarts.”

“The Potions curriculum is based on using pewter cauldrons,” McGonagall added. “You’ll find that the brewing times for potions vary depending on the metal your cauldron is made of.”

_That’s no reason not to have the standard based on copper or whatever_ , Ash thought, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing about. _Though, if Carmilla were here she’d probably throw a fit over the lead or whatever deadly metal might be found in pewter…_

The apothecary had convenient pre-measured sets of the first-year potion ingredients available for sale, with an extra deal that included glass phials, protective gloves, and scales with the set. Despite this convenience, Ash took his time to browse, trying to get a feel for what exactly making a “potion” would involve. Some of the things he looked at stood out to his sight as possessing inherent magic, but others seemed perfectly mundane despite not being the sort of substances he’d consider safe to consume. The one thing that made him really stop and stare, however, was a display offering powdered unicorn horn. The sight sparked an instinctual feeling of revulsion, because in Ash’s personal experience unicorns tended to be highly intelligent creatures, but he fought it down and took a minute to figure out the best way to ask the questions that he needed answered. “How is this stuff harvested?” was what he finally settled on.

“Ah, tha’s easy,” Hagrid answered. “Unicorns drop their horns every couple years, so you can jus’ pick em up off the forest floor. Hogwart’s got a herd of unicorns in the forest, so gatherin’ up horn’s part of me job. Unicorn hair’s mighty useful too – goes into a lot of wands – but that’s a bit trickier to get ‘cus they don’t shed.”

“I see,” Ash said, relaxing. _Non-sapient unicorns_ , he thought as he left the apothecary. _That’s… rare_.

After a quick and uneventful trip to the astronomy store to get a collapsible telescope, the group returned to the Leaky Cauldron for lunch. Tom the barkeep helpfully gave them a private room so that Ash wouldn’t have to put up with a constant parade of fans and well-wishers. Once everyone was seated and the food had arrived, Ash pulled out the supply list and read over the required books. “So, what kind of classes are taught at Hogwarts?” he asked.

Professor McGonagall answered, “For the first two years, you’ll be taking seven classes: Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Astronomy, Potions, History of Magic, and Transfiguration. Starting in third year, you’ll also take up to three more courses of your choice from Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Divination.”

“What’s Arithmancy?” Ash asked, feeling confident he could guess what all the other electives were.

“Arithmancy,” McGonagall said slowly, thinking about how to best explain to a ten-year-old, “is the practice of analyzing and predicting the results of magic spells using maths.”

Ash perked up. “Does the analysis extend to learning to create new spells?” he asked.

“Eventually,” McGonagall said, “although spell creation is only covered at the N.E.W.T. level – sixth and seventh year.”

_I can’t wait that long_ , Ash thought, frowning, _but at least the methods exist._ “N.E.W.T. level?” he asked as cover when McGonagall and Hagrid noticed his expression.

“Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests,” Hagrid answered. “Th’ real advanced stuff yeh’ll need ta get inta certain jobs. Before those, in fifth year, yeh’ll be taking the O.W.L.s – Ordinary Wizardin’ Levels.”

Ash snorted and shook his head. “Ok,” he said, “O.W.L. is clever, but whoever approved of ‘N.E.W.T.’ deserves a firm slap upside the head for egregious pun-craft.” Ignoring the looks Hagrid and McGonagall exchanged, Ash put his list away and applied himself to his meal.


	4. Wands and Books

“This might be a dumb question,” Ash the Pragmagic said as he and his two chaperons, Professor McGonagall and Rebeus Hagrid, re-entered Diagon Alley to finish buying the things Ash would need to attend Hogwarts (under the name of Harry Potter), “but does everyone use magic wands, or is it like the pewter cauldron thing?” _Because if I can get away with not having to rely on a fancy stick,_ he finished silently, _I’ll be much happier. Direct Weaves and spell cards are_ much _better._

“That is a fine question, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said. “The wand is an essential tool for all witches and wizards, at least in Europe and the Americas. I’ve heard that other parts of the world use other methods to channel magic, but you don’t need to concern yourself with those. Your wand will serve you perfectly well no matter where in the world you may find yourself. Of course, it is possible to learn to cast spells without a wand, but that is a skill that few are able to master, since it requires intense focus and practice to achieve the same level of power as one would with a wand in hand.”

Ash had started to raise his hand to weave a simple mage-light, but McGonagall’s last words made him reconsider. _Maybe I should keep my Weave skills close to the chest, then_ , he thought. _Not only would that give me a surprise advantage in a fight, but I probably shouldn’t give Harry Potter a reputation for exceptional ability that he wouldn’t be able to live up to._

Professor McGonagall steered the group toward a narrow shop with an old, peeling sign that read “Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.” The shopfront inside was tiny, as most of the building was dedicated to tall shelves stuffed full of narrow boxes behind the shop counter, and to Ash’s magic senses the whole place almost pulsated from all the potential magic energy concentrated around those boxes. The only piece of furniture was a spindly chair that McGonagall sat down on while Hagrid leaned against the wall nearby. There didn’t seem to be anybody else, nor any kind of bell on the door or counter to alert the shopkeeper that there were customers waiting. Ash walked up to the counter, peered over it into the depths of the shelves as best he could with his short stature, and then turned to give McGonagall a quizzical look. “You sure they’re open?” he asked.

“Good afternoon,” a voice said from behind Ash, startling him. He whirled to face the counter again, fingers reflexively bent to start Weaving, and forced himself to relax. The man who was presumably Mr. Ollivander was old with eyes the color of the full moon on a clear night. That only added to the creepiness of his silent approach in the short time Ash hadn’t been looking.

“Afternoon,” Ash replied coolly.

Ollivander’s silvery eyes twinkled as he gave Ash a patronizing smile. “Ah, yes. Yes, I thought I would be seeing you soon. Harry Potter,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems like only yesterday that she was in here buying her wand. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy. Great for Charms.” He came around the counter to get a closer look at Ash, and Ash had the realization that the old man hadn’t blinked even once yet. “Your father, on the other hand,” Ollivander continued, pulling out a measuring tape, “favored a mahogany wand, eleven inches. Pliable, but powerful, well suited for Transfiguration. Ah, but when I say he favored it, I rather mean that it favored him. The wand chooses the wizard, after all.” He was very close to Ash now, almost nose-to-nose, and his silver eyes slid up to the lightning bolt-shaped scar on Ash’s head. “And there...”

Ash caught the man’s wrist before he could poke the scar. “Mind toning down the enigmatic vibe a bit, sirrah?” Ash drawled.

Ollivander blinked – finally – and took a step back back. “My apologies, my boy,” he said, “I imagine you’ve gotten more than your fill of _that_ already today? Yes, yes, down to business. Which is your wand hand?”

“Well, I’m right-handed,” Ash said, slightly bemused, “so...”

“Go on then,” Ollivander ordered, “hold it out.” Ash complied, and Ollivander measured his arm from shoulder to elbow, then elbow to wrist, and finally his handspan. Then he walked back behind the counter and started looking through the shelves while the measuring tape continued on its own, measuring Ash’s legs before gradually moving up his body.

“Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magic substance, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander explained as he searched. “Unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, and dragon heartstrings are my specialty. Other wand-makers may boast a wider range of cores, but I find those three work quite well with almost every kind of wand-wood to be found in the British Isles. I have yet to find a combination that doesn’t work for somebody, eventually. Now,” he idly waved his hand at the measuring tape, making it stop its efforts to measure the gap between Ash’s nostrils, “let’s see which wand suits you best.”

Ash’s annoyance at the measuring tape’s antics faded at the sight of Ollivander’s wandless magic. _If he’s good enough to do that_ , Ash thought, _he’s probably a Maker worthy of his craft_ _._ He picked up the tape and set it on the counter as he waited for the old man to come back. “Does it really matter that much?” he asked, fishing for information.

“Certainly, my boy!” Ollivander said. “I’m sure you’ll come to see, sooner or later, that while a witch or wizard _can_ make any wand work for them, it is far, far easier to use the wand that best matches you.” Ollivander picked out several boxes from the shelf, following some system Ash couldn’t perceive, and brought them up. “Now, try this one,” Ollivander said, opening a box and handing the wand inside to Ash. “Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches, nice and flexible. Just gave it a wave.”

Ash scrutinized the wand for several seconds. He couldn’t see the seams he expected given that it was supposed to have a core inserted, but he did make out several tiny runic shapes carved into the wood under the varnish. The threads of magic he could sense were swirling around the wand as if waiting to be called upon and Woven. He kept his attention on the threads as he raised the wand above his head and brought it down in a broad wave. The threads kept pace with the wand, but nothing else happened.

Mr. Ollivander snatched the wand out of Ash’s hand and instantly replaced it with another. “Maple and phoenix feather,” he said. “Nine inches and whippy. Go on.”

Ash raised the wand, but before he could finish the movement, Ollivander and taken it and handed him another - “Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and half inches. Springy.” Ash gave that one only a half-hearted wave, since to his eyes it looked no more reactive than the first two.

So it went for close to half an hour, as wand after wand passed through Ash’s hand and was summarily banished to a growing pile on the counter. Ash was starting to feel frustrated and doubtful, although he did notice that the magic seemed to swirl in slightly tighter coils for some wands. Ollivander, on the other hand, only grew more excited as the number of reject wands grew. “Tricky customer, eh?” he said with a smirk. “No matter, we’ll find it eventually.”

_Unless it’s not here because I’m not native to this world_ , Ash thought ruefully. _Actually, that’s a curious question, there._ I _am not from this universe, but I’m not in my own body right now. What determines a wand’s fitness? The soul or the physical connection to the magic?_

Ash filed the question away as Ollivander pressed another wand into his hand. “Maybe this one,” the old man said. “Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Ash looked at the wand, and knew instantly that there was something different about it. The magic threads that had only loosely swirled around the other wands seemed to be wrapped tight against the tip, and Ash could feel the power flowing out from his hand and up through the wood. He waved it, and a shower of orange sparks flew from the end, to the delight of Hagrid.

“There yeh go, Harry!” the giant man exclaimed happily.

“Oh yes, bravo indeed!” Mr. Ollivander beamed, but then grew thoughtful. “Curious, though...”

“What’s curious?” Ash asked examining the wand closer. So far as he could tell, aside from being the only wand he’d held that had actually done anything, it didn’t seem out of the ordinary.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said. “As it happens, the phoenix whose feather resides in the core of your wand gave another feather. Just one other.”

“Uh huh,” Ash said, not getting it. He decided to give the wand a more intensive test. Getting it to spew sparks looked impressive enough, but he wasn’t willing to trust this wand’s fitness on such flimsy evidence. He raised the wand, gripping it like a conductor’s baton, and began sketching in the air, Weaving the threads of magic into the simple, familiar pattern of mage-light. As he did so, he kept half an ear open as Ollivander continued talking.

“It is curious,” the old man was saying, “that that you should be destined for that wand when its brother… why, it’s brother gave you that scar.”

Ash slowed his Weaving and raised an eyebrow. “You mean, my wand has something in common with Voldemort’s wand?” His other eyebrow went up when everyone else in the room gasped and flinched at the name. “I’m afraid I don’t see the significance, Mr. Ollivander. Just coincidence, surely.”

Ollivander shook his head gravely. “Ah, my boy,” he said, “when it comes to wand-lore, there’s no such thing as ‘just coincidence.’ I think we can expect great things from you, Harry Potter. After all...” He trailed off as Ash finished his Weave with a small flourish and a muttered command, and a floating ball of orange light appeared in the air.

“Good heavens!” McGonagall exclaimed. “Mr. Potter, how did you do that?”

“Imperfectly, it seems,” Ash said, regarding the mage-light quizzically. “I was trying for white light.”

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said in a tone that would brook no flippancy, “you just cast a free-floating light charm without using the standard incantation. Simply creating a light detached from your wand would be impressive enough for a wizard of your age, but to do so without even knowing the actual spell?”

“Great things indeed,” Ollivander whispered, with a knowing smile.

_Well_ , Ash thought, lowering his wand, _that’s a_ skvetch _on not looking like a prodigy…_ “I...” he hesitated, caught between not wanting to reveal too much and his firm determination to avoid speaking lies. He’d lasted this long because the Dursleys didn’t care care enough to try and understand their unwanted nephew. Now, when he was surrounded by openly practiced magic, he’d been lulled into letting his guard down too much. McGonagall and Hagrid were still looking at him for an explanation, so he had to take a gamble on how little he could say about himself and still be convincing. “I just thought of what I wanted to make happen,” he said, “and waved my wand until the magic came together the right way. Er, mostly,” he amended, poking the mage-light with a finger. The orange light floated slowly away and then faded out as the Weave unraveled itself and reverted to separate, resting threads of energy.

It was an extremely simplistic way of explaining how Weaves worked, but it was true enough for Ash’s conscience and, more importantly, seemed to be adequate for dispelling Professor McGonagall’s confusion. She still looked a little amazed, but she gave Ash a small smile and said, “You may have the makings of an exceptional arithmancer, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Ash said sincerely. “So, how much do I owe you, Mr. Ollivander?”

* * *

A couple minutes later and seven galleons lighter, Ash stepped back out into Diagon Alley with one last mandatory stop: Flourish and Blotts Booksellers. During the walk, Professor McGonagall caught Ash’s attention with a quiet but stern cough. “Now that you have your wand,” she said, “and in light of the revelation of your… talents, I must impress on you the importance of not using magic outside of approved locations. To be precise, the only places where under-aged witches and wizards like yourself are permitted to use magic are on school property, while under the supervision of an accredited tutor, or inside a wandmaker’s shop like Ollivander’s. There are allowances under the law for accidental magic and self-defense, but if you violate the rules too many times – and especially if it results in harming someone else or threatening the Statute of Secrecy – you’ll be expelled from Hogwarts, your wand will be destroyed, and you will be banned from ever owning another. Understood?”

“Understood, ma’am,” Ash said, noting that Hagrid had suddenly developed an odd twitch during the lecture. _There’s a story there,_ he thought, gazing side-long at the large man, _but this is probably not the time to pry._ “I must admit, though,” Ash continued conversationally, “that I’m very curious about why we magic types are so secretive about being magic types.”

Hagrid chuckled before McGonagall could answer. “Blimey,” he said, “If the muggles knew there was still witches and wizards about, everyone’d be wanting magic solutions to their problems, wouldn’t they?”

“It’s rather more complicated than that, Hagrid,” McGonagall chided. “Too complicated to explain right now, Mr. Potter. The Stature of Secrecy will be covered in your History of Magic classes.”

Ash did not find that to be at all satisfactory, but he kept his mouth shut. The last thing he needed was to be branded an outcast and criminal at the apparent age of ten. He’d never be able to find the mysterious letter’s author or put together the spells to get himself home and swapped back into his own body if the holders of magical knowledge kicked him out of their club.

Flourish and Blotts was modestly sized as bookstores went, but from the first glance inside Ash knew it would have been an instant favorite for both of the bibliophiles he knew. Wizards appeared to treat their books as pieces of art as much as repositories of knowledge; Ash saw many books that deviated from the standard sizes and shape, including some that were the size of postage stamps and bound with silk. Even the normal-looking books had a chance of being more than they appeared which, given the propensity of flowery titles and what Ash hoped were just pen names adopted for the sake of puns in the by-lines, was saying something. _Ray and Chell could probably spend all day here just ranking the wordplay on the covers_ , Ash thought as he picked out a copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_ by Newt Scamander, to start his collection of school books.

The Hogwarts textbooks were all kept in one section, and helpfully arranged by year-level, so it didn’t take long for Ash to gather the necessary books and turn his attention to acquiring additional, personal selections. After checking with Professor McGonagall and learning that it was possible but highly irregular for a student to be able to test into a higher class, Ash grabbed a copy of the basic Arithmancy textbook anyway, because if he had to get help to make a portal spell, he would need to know how to speak the local jargon for spell analysis and crafting. Moving beyond the school section, and after double-checking how much spending money he had left, Ash found _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ , which was a history book that covered much more recent events than _A History of Magic_ , and seeing the phrase “You-Know-Who” several times in the last few chapters sealed the deal for Ash.

Whether or not he was actually gone for good, the evil Voldemort was obviously still present in the minds of witches and wizards, so it would be worth Ash’s time to learn as much about him as possible.

There weren’t many books that dealt with theoretical magic in the first place, so Ash wasn’t surprised to find nothing that looked like it might relate to inter-dimensional portals. _Sure, I_ could _try to rely on just what I can remember from studying the Tau’rin chain and Twi-_ He stopped short as he rounded a shelf and nearly collided with a small girl with fiery red hair and an abundance of freckles. The girl’s eyes went wide as she looked at him, zeroing in on the scar of course, and then let out an extended squeak while running away.

“Charmed,” Ash drawled, returning to his browsing. Several titles jumped out at him as things that might be worth looking into, but due to his budget he had to pass on all of them except what appeared to be a basic guide to the laws of Magical Britain and a book of wizarding fairy tales attributed to a “Beedle the Bard.”

As Ash turned from making that final selection, he saw the girl coming back, followed by an exasperated woman with the same flaming red hair. “Look, Mum!” the girl exclaimed, pointing at Ash, “I told you! It’s _him!_ ”

“Honestly, Ginny,” the mother said, “I’ve taught you better than...” She trailed off as she caught sight of Ash, who helpfully brushed his bangs back so everyone could get to the point quicker. “Morgana,” the mother breathed. She then blushed and tried to compose herself. “Pardon me, young man,” she said, “but, you are Harry Potter?”

“That’s what everyone’s been calling me,” Ash replied with a smirk.

The woman smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes that Ash hadn’t seen in anyone else he’d met today. “I’m Molly Weasley,” the woman said at last, “and this is my daughter, Ginny.” Ginny’s face turned bright red as Ash nodded at her in greeting. “You’re out shopping for Hogwarts, I take it?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “All alone?”

“Mr. Potter is under my supervision for the day, Molly,” Professor McGonagall said, appearing from a nearby aisle.

“Oh, Professor!” Mrs. Weasley’s sad smile lightened somewhat. “Well, we shouldn’t take up any more of your time,” she told Ash. “Perhaps we’ll see you again at King’s Cross; I’ve got four boys going to Hogwarts. One of them, Ron, will be starting his first year too.”

_That’s good to know_ , Ash thought. “I’ll keep an eye out for him then, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, walking up to shake her hand. “Nice to have met you. And you, Ms. Ginny,” he added, giving the girl another nod and a smile. Ginny mumbled something through her star-struck paralysis, and Ash decided to make himself scarce so she’d be able to breathe again.

As Ash and McGonagall made their way to the counter to pay for the books, the Professor commented, “The Weasleys are a large and good-natured wizarding family. I’ve had the pleasure of being the Head of House for all the children so far. I think you’d do well to make their acquaintance, even if you are not sorted into Gryffindor. Do be cautious around the twins, Fred and George, though. They are… prone to mischief.”

“Duly noted, ma’am,” Ash said.

* * *

“Any thoughts on gettin’ a pet, Harry?” Hagrid asked as the group left Flourish and Blotts.

“Not really,” Ash said. “I’m not much of a cat person, toads seem kinda pointless, and I don’t know the first thing about caring for an owl.”

“Owls are easy,” Hagrid said. “Mostly take care of themselves, and they’re useful to boot, carrying your mail for you an’ all.”

Ash thought it over, recalling the swarm of owls that had delivered the acceptance letters to him. “All right,” he said, “maybe, but certainly not today. The Dursleys are going to be sour enough without me coming home with an entire live bird of prey on my shoulder. I should at least give them some forewarning, if not sweeten them up a bit first.”

Hagrid looked satisfied with that answer. “How ‘bout this, then,” he said, “yer birthday’s coming up, so I’ll buy yeh an owl as a present.”

‘ _Your birthday is on the 31 st of July’_, Ash quoted the mysterious letter in his mind, ‘ _but... nobody cares.’ That’s strike… three at least, Mysterious Letters’mn. What kind of racket do you think you’re running?_ “I think I’d like that, Hagrid,” Ash told the large man. “The goblins want me to check over my bank account soon anyway, so if I do that on the 31st, we can meet up afterwards and pick out the bird.”

“It’s a date,” Hagrid chuckled.

“On the subject of the Dursleys,” Ash said, “I need to get a souvenir for Dudley. Some kind of magical toy or treat.” McGonagall gave him a bewildered look, but before she could say anything, Ash explained, “I know we’ve talked about the no-magic rules, but I have to live with these people, Professor. I can’t be in that situation and _not_ try to change their minds about magic. Besides, I promised Dudley I’d get him something, and I do not go back on my promises. Period.”

McGonagall still looked troubled, but had to concede the point. “You are right, Mr. Potter,” she said, “it wouldn’t be fair to try and force you to not try and improve your home life. So long as you promise not to try and bespell your relatives-’

“That would be counterproductive,” Ash cut in, flatly.

“Very well,” McGonagall said, “in that case, I’ll help you find something.”


	5. Meetings

“Licorice Wand.” The gargoyle hiding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office leaped out of the way, and Professor McGonagall climbed the stairs with dignified haste. The door opened of its own accord at her knock, and she stepped into the office to see Professor Dumbledore at his desk, perusing a letter.

“Do take a seat, Minerva,” Dumbledore said without looking up, “I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished reading Fudge’s latest inquiry.”

McGonagall sat down in the offered chair, her lips pursed with mild reproof. “Honestly, Albus,” she said, “as much as that man pesters you for advice, you might as well have accepted the Minister of Magic position.”

“Ah, but then I could not remain here,” Dumbledore replied. “I think my limited energies are better spent preparing the next generation than in running the government.”

As tempted as she was, McGonagall did not comment that as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump on the International Confederation of Wizards, Dumbledore already engaged in more than his share of government-running. She was too busy doing her part in preparing for upcoming school year to let the Headmaster lead her into a discussion that had no relation to her present business.

Sensing that McGonagall wasn’t taking his bait, Dumbledore set the letter down and said, “So then, I assume you’ve just returned from escorting Harry Potter and his family for their first experience on Diagon Alley.”

“I have,” McGonagall replied, “but it was only Mr. Potter. That ‘family’ of his refused to come along, as I suspected. I still stand by what I said about them ten yeas ago, Albus: they are the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. It is nothing short of a miracle that Harry Potter has survived this long without doing something to warrant a visit from an Accidental Magic Reversal crew, or worse.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said in an exceptionally neutral tone. “And what are your impressions of the boy himself?”

McGonagall started to answer, then paused and pondered for a second. “He is not the sort of child I expected to find, having been raised by those people,” she said at length. “He was very reserved but perfectly polite, even to the goblins. He had plenty of thoughtful questions and wasn’t afraid to ask, but unlike every muggle-born student I have ever escorted, he displayed almost no wonder or amazement at anything or anyone in Diagon Alley. I dare say it felt more like I was accompanying a foreign dignitary or a war veteran than a child. He does have an incredible natural talent for magic,” she added, a spark of excitement lighting up her eyes. “You should have seen it, Albus: not a minute after Ollivander matched him to a wand than Mr. Potter cast a nonverbal, free-floating light, using what I can only assume was a spell he invented on the spot!”

“Really now?’ Dumbledore said, surprised.

“Hagrid saw it as well, in case you think I exaggerate,” McGonagall said in a clipped tone.

Dumbledore sat back, stroking his long, white beard. “Not at all, Minerva,” he said distractedly. He thought for a long while and then said, “Well, well, all the more reason we should keep a particular close eye on Mr. Harry Potter this year, then.”

* * *

It took a great deal of willpower, but Ash managed to disembark from the Knight Bus with his loaded school trunk and proceed up the walk to Number 4 Privet Drive without giving vent to his irritation at the Bus and its lunatic driver. At least, he managed until the Bus had left with its characteristic instant breaching of the sound barrier. “Only the one magic bus for the whole _skvetchte_ island,” he muttered darkly, “and it’s driven by a man who could give _Zorlict_ a challenge… Wizards need a collective sanity check.”

After dragging a hand over his face to help switch gears, he opened the door to the house ( _Hey and huzzah they didn’t try to lock me out_ ), hauled the trunk inside, and announced, “Sorry to disappoint, but I have returned!”

Vernon Dursley emerged from the sitting room, opened the under-stairs cupboard, and pointed a beefy finger at it. “Put everything in there,” he growled.

Ash peeked into the mostly empty cupboard and then met Vernon’s glare steadily. “I’d rather keep it all in my room, if it’s all the same,” he said. “Have everything close at hand and not where I’d be in everyone’s way when-”

“You do as you’re told, boy,” Vernon interrupted. “I won’t let you corrupt this house with your unnaturalness anymore than you already have.”

Ash glowered, but he kept the many retorts that came into his head right where they were. He slid his trunk into the cupboard, then removed his messenger bag and set it on top. As soon as the bag was in place, Vernon shoved Ash to the side, shut the cupboard, and shut a padlock through the hook. Ash ignored Vernon’s smug look in favor of surreptitiously examining the padlock. _Basic-looking model_ , Ash concluded, _keyed with either a sturdy few or many flimsy pins, most likely steel where it counts. No challenge to open and remove silently; it will make for a decent test of how closely I’m being monitored for unauthorized magic_.

“Right then,” Vernon started to say, only to be interrupted by Dudley emerging from his room and stomping down the stairs straight at Ash.

“You promised to bring me something!” the obese boy declared. “Where is it?”

Ash jabbed a thumb at the cupboard. “Your dad just locked it up,” he said simply. He tried to slip away as Dudley started to ramp up for a tantrum, but Vernon grabbed Ash by the shoulder and all but slammed him into the wall. “Ok, _what_ is your problem, Dursley?” Ash snapped before anyone else could say a word. “Why do you hate magic so much?”

Vernon’s free hand tightened into a fist, poised threateningly near Ash’s face. Ash just blinked slowly, every part of his borrowed body calm except for a hint of fire in his green eyes. “Go on, then,” Ash goaded, “punch me. Give me a reason to prove your fears right.”

“You think I’m scared of you?” Vernon hissed.

“Why else would you be treating me like dirt?” Ash reasoned. “I represent a part of the world that you don’t understand, and what you don’t understand you can’t control. And that scares you. Especially since everything you’ve tried to do to separate me from the magic has failed.” Vernon’s face was turning a dangerous shade of purple and his fist was quivering with anticipation, but Ash simply smiled. “Either set me straight if I’m wrong,” he said, “let me go, or carry through with your threat and see what happens next.”

Vernon’s grip on Ash’s shoulder tightened and then released. “You’re destined for a messy end, boy,” he said, “just like your parents. I’d hoped to spare you that, but I guess there really is no helping something that’s born rotten. You better hope you meet somebody willing to put up with you at that school, because once you go there you won’t be coming back to this house.”

Vernon turned and stalked away, and Ash let him reach the kitchen door before responding. “Were you aware of how rich the Potter family is in wizard society, Uncle Vernon?” Vernon glanced back, bemused by the comment but just intrigued enough to hear his nephew out. “I’ve got access to what looked like a king’s ransom in wizarding coins,” Ash continued conversationally, folding his arms, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if I could exchange wizard money for nice, proper English pounds. Honestly, there’s probably more there than I could feasibly spend in three life-times by myself. It seems only fair and reasonable that whoever takes on the job of housing and feeding me until I come of age should be able to share in some of that wealth. I’ll be sure to mention that while I’m looking for new legal guardians this school year.”

By this point, Petunia Dursley had poked her head into the hall to eavesdrop on the confrontation, and she and her husband exchanged significant looks. “N-now hold on a minute,” Vernon said, suddenly a lot calmer and more saccharine, “let’s not be too hasty there, Harry.”

Ash tried to keep his smile from looking too smug and just looked pointedly at the padlocked cupboard.


	6. Hogwarts Express

July and August passed by fairly smoothly for Ash the Pragmagic, aside from one slight bump on Harry Potter’s birthday when the adult Dursleys protested to the idea of having an owl in their house, despite Dudley siding with Ash and Hagrid in the argument. The issue was only resolved when Ash promised not to let the owl, a beautiful snowy white specimen, out of her cage in daylight, take scrupulous care that she didn’t leave any dead animals or animal by-products lying around, and to bear the full brunt of any complaints the neighbors would have.

The owl, which Ash quickly determined had a preference for the name Hedwig, proved to be a highly intelligent and conscientious bird, quickly learning to deal with her post-hunting “deposits” before returning to the house each evening. So far as Ash could determine, nobody in the vicinity of Privet Drive outside of Number 4 was either aware that Hedwig existed or, if they were, that she roosted inside a house during the day.

When he wasn’t busy doing chores to keep the Dursleys in a tolerant mood or fending off Dudley’s persistent demands for more magic demonstrations – despite Ash clearly spelling out the reasons he couldn’t just cast spells willy-nilly – Ash spent the time leading up to the start of term studying his textbooks. He’d skimmed through _The_ _Standard Book of Spells_ , _A History of Magic,_ and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and lingered a bit over the opening chapters of the other required books, but most of his time was spent studying _Spells by the Numbers: an Introduction to Arithmancy_. Professor McGonagall had warned him that the method of analyzing spells in this world involved math, but the formulae and equations involved in even the most basic arithmancy exercises made Ash’s head spin. More than once over the remainder of summer, Ash had slammed the book shut with exasperation and massaged his temples. He was used to crafting spells mostly through intuition and an almost artistic vision of elemental energies. Although he was familiar enough with a few more technical styles of spell notation to be able to understand and replicate other people’s spellcraft, arithmancy was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He was a long, long way from being able to create the spells he would need to restore himself and the actual Harry Potter to their proper places.

 _Well_ , Ash thought after giving up again on the night before he was to leave for Hogwarts, _at least I’ll have plenty to occupy myself with in the meantime at this school._ _Like taking good enough notes for Harry to hopefully be able to catch up with where he ought to be._

Ash had also spent a good amount of time reading _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ to try and get a solid baseline on the specter of Voldemort. The book hadn’t gone into great detail, but Ash concluded that while Voldemort hadn’t been as broad-based a threat as some of the dark wizards that had come before him, having limited his reign of terror solely to the British Isles rather than most of Europe, at his peak he’d practically held the entire magical population of England under his thumb, operating from the shadows through mind-controlled influential figures and swift, precise, and public assassinations of anyone who fought back too hard. Nobody cited in _Rise and Fall_ could explain how such a powerful and calculating wizard had failed so spectacularly at killing baby Harry Potter, nor where said baby had been spirited off to following the incident (though, of course, Ash already knew the answer to _that_ mystery). Nevertheless, the author concluded not to look a gift horse in the mouth and declared that with Voldemort out of the picture, it was time for Magical Britain to pick itself up and celebrate the definitive and final Fall of the Dark Arts.

 _Naive optimism_ , Ash had thought, rolling his eyes at the concluding sentences before putting the book away.

* * *

Despite having won a small degree of acceptance from the Dursleys through plain bribery, Ash was still surprised when Vernon agreed to drive Ash to King’s Cross on September 1st rather than argue that the boy ought to subject himself to the Knight Bus again, since Vernon had been quite amused upon hearing the description (and Ash’s low opinion) of the wizarding world’s only form of public transit. It was only when the two arrived at the station, acquired a trolley for Ash’s luggage and Hedwig’s cage, and Vernon had followed Ash inside that the displaced mage learned why Vernon had been so keen to be helpful.

“Remind me what platform you’re supposed to leave from,” Vernon said.

Ash looked down at the one train ticket he’d chosen out of the many that had arrived with the pile of acceptance letters (he’d shredded and burned the remainder to preclude Dudley trying to sneak his way into Hogwarts). “It’s… Platform Nine and Three-quarters,” he replied, his voice taking a quick dive into frustrated realization.

“Hm.” Vernon made a show of looking around. “I see Platform Nine and Platform Ten,” Vernon said. “Seems they haven’t built yours yet.” With a laugh, he clapped Ash on the shoulder and walked away.

“Great use of your time and petrol, just to make that crack, Dursley,” Ash muttered at his retreating figure. He put his ticket in his pocket and set off in search of the fractional platform. He paced up and down both platforms nine and ten, looking for any unusual ripples in the ambient magic or people in the crowd who might’ve been wizards. At fifteen minutes before the Hogwarts Express was due to depart, Ash started considering expanding his search pattern to other platforms when he overheard a vaguely familiar voice.

“-packed with muggles, of course.”

Turning toward the sound, Ash saw a group of red-headed, freckled boys pushing trolleys passing by, led by the plump, matronly figure of Molly Weasley. Spinning his trolley around as quick as he could without upsetting Hedwig, Ash wove his way through the crowd toward the group. He caught up as they stopped in front of one of the barriers dividing platforms nine and ten.

“Mum, can’t I go?” Ginny Weasley was pleading as Ash got within earshot again.

“You’re too young,” Mrs. Weasley replied with more than a hint of impatience. “Now, one at a time, everyone. Percy, you first.” Ash focused on the eldest of the four boys as he walked straight toward the barrier. Just before the boy would have collided with the wall, a tangle of tourists suddenly walked by, frustrating Ash’s attempts to see where he’d vanished to after the crowd had passed.

“You’re next, Fred,” Mrs. Weasley said, gesturing.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George” the indicated boy protested.

“Honestly,” the identical-looking boy next to George piped in, “you call yourself our mother and you can’t even tell your children apart.”

“Oh, sorry George,” Mrs. Weasley replied, giving him an impatient wave to get on with it.

“Only kidding, I am Fred,” the first twin said as he ran at the barrier.

 _Guess McGonagall wasn’t kidding about those two_ , Ash thought as he moved closer. More sudden surges in the crowd obscured both Fred and George’s disappearances as they approached the barrier, and Ash gave up on trying to figure out the trick by observation alone.

“Pardon me,” he said, stopping his trolley next to the remaining Weasley boy’s, “Mrs. Weasley?”

“Hm? Oh, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, her surprise quickly giving way to happiness. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Lucky for me,” Ash admitted with a slight nod. “Mind if I ask how…” He waved a hand limply toward the barrier.

“How to get onto the platform?” Mrs. Weasley deduced. “Not at all. It’s quite simple, really: you just walk straight on through the barrier there. Why don’t you go on ahead of Ron?”

Ash glanced over and caught Ron Weasley’s eye. The other boy looked a bit awestruck, his eyes searching Ash’s forehead for the scar, but managed a small nod of permission. So, adjusting his grip on his trolley, Ash stepped forward and approached the barrier at a slow jog. _Pocket dimension hidden behind a sophisticated illusion_ , he told himself as the wall loomed closer, _that three people have already passed through without a problem. Trust…_ And then suddenly the bustle of King’s Cross station was replaced by a completely different scene. A single enclosed train platform, at which was parked a large scarlet steam locomotive, full of of parents seeing children off and students reuniting with friends before boarding. A man dressed in a vintage-looking conductor’s uniform quickly stepped up to guide Ash away from the entry arch and collect his train ticket before wordlessly stepping away to repeat the process with Ron, who emerged from the entrance at a run.

As Mrs. Weasley and Ginny entered the platform, Ash worked his way around the knots of people toward the train. He noted that the students who were already boarding seemed to be favoring the front cars, so he aimed toward the rear of the train and soon found an empty compartment. He put Hedwig inside first and then tried to haul his trunk up. As he was struggling, one of the Weasley twins emerged from the crowd and approached. “Need a hand?” he asked.

“If you can spare one,” Ash replied, silently cursing his frail muscles. _Better make sure to eat well and exercise a bit_ , he thought as the red-head called his twin over to help. _Even a mage needs to be able to lift some weight_.

With the help of the twins, Ash’s trunk was quickly lifted into the compartment and secured under a bench.

“Thank you,” Ash said. The twins nodded, but didn’t leave. Instead, they leaned in to search Ash’s forehead.

“Ha,” one of them said, pointing, “there it is alright.”

“Mum wasn’t pulling our legs then,” the other said. “You’re him, aren’t you?” he added to Ash

“I’m who?” Ash asked, knowing full well who they thought he was but feeling in the mood for a little fun.

“Harry Potter,” the twins chorused.

“Ah, if you say so,” Ash replied with a nonchalant shrug.

The twins gawked at Ash, but before the moment got more awkward or he could tell them off, Mrs. Weasley’s voice rose over the ambient noise of the platform, “Fred, George! Where are you?”

“Coming, mum,” one of the twins said. They hopped off the train and Ash closed the door behind them. He settled into a seat and watched through the window as the Weasley family gathered for final farewells.

Mrs. Weasley was trying to wipe something off Ron’s face despite the boy’s protests as the twins approached. “Aw,” one of the twins teased, “does ickle Ronnikens got somefink on his nose?”

“Shut up,” Ron – who was already nearly as tall as his older brothers – groused as he pulled himself out of his mother’s grip.

“Where’s Percy?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“There,” Ginny reported pointing engine-ward.

The eldest Weasley came striding pompously up the platform. He was already dressed in his school robes, which billowed about in a way he probably thought gave him some added grandeur, with a shiny red and gold badge embossed with the letter P pinned to his chest. “Can’t stay long, mother,” he said. “I’m up front. The Prefects have got two compartments to themselves-”

“Oh, are you a Prefect, Percy?” one of the twins said with an air of great surprise. “You should have said something. We had no idea!”

“Hold on,” the other twin said. “I think I remember him saying something about it once.”

“Twice.”

“A minute.”

“All summer.”

“Oh shut up,” Percy snapped.

Ash smirked as the twin’s witty synchronicity brought to mind two of his closest friends. _They might be worth the trouble_ , he thought.

Mrs. Weasley gave Percy a quick kiss on the cheek and let him head back to the front of the train, and then turned to the twins with a warning glint in her eye. “Now you two,” she said, “You behave yourselves this year, understand? If I get one more owl telling me you’ve… blown up a toilet or-”

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never done that.”

“Great idea, though. Thanks, mum!”

“It’s not funny!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “And look after Ron.”

Unfazed, the first twin threw an arm around Ron’s shoulder and declared, cheeky as ever, “Don’t worry, ickle Ronnikens is safe with us.”

“Shut up,” Ron groused again, trying without much success to escape.

Any further conversation was cut short as the train’s whistle blew. Mrs. Weasley frantically herded her three boys to the entrance at the rear of the car and helped them lift their trunks aboard while giving them all farewell kisses at the same time.

Ash tuned out the family’s parting words and sat back as the train started rolling. He watched out the window as the train left the platform, trying to determine if and where they’d be emerging into the “real” world. He saw King’s Cross station disappear behind the Express, but his eyes refused to focus on the spot where the rail tracks actually entered the station. _If nothing else_ , Ash thought, _I’ll probably learn a_ lot _about spatial pockets_ _and stealth spells_ _while I’m here._

The inner compartment door slid open, and Ash looked away from the window to see the youngest Weasley boy looking in. “Hey,” he said uncertainly, “is… anyone, uh, sitting here? Everywhere else is full.”

“Come on in,” Ash invited. The boy rolled his trunk into the compartment and under the seat opposite Ash. He then sat down, cast a glance at Ash, and then quickly looked out the window as if he wasn’t intensely curious. “You’re name’s Ron, right?” Ash asked.

Ron gave a start and stared at Ash. “Yeah,” he said. “How’d you know?”

“Between listening to your mother’s instructions for getting to the platform and overhearing your brothers tease you, I’ve heard you referred to as ‘Ron’ at least four times already,” Ash answered. He held out his hand. “You can call me Ash,” he said with a friendly smile.

Ron shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said, but then cast a confused look at Ash’s forehead. “So you aren’t Harry Potter, then?” he asked. “Mum said she met him in Diagon Alley last month and you look a lot like the way she described him.”

Ash moved his bangs aside to show off the scar better. “I’m trying to see how long I can go without outright admitting my identity to anyone who asks, and without repeating myself,” he explained.

“Why?”

“It’s amusing,” Ash said with a shrug. “Although I don’t think I’ll be able to make it last the whole train ride, especially once word gets around.”

“Ok,” Ron said, “so if you _are_ Harry Potter, then that-” he pointed to the scar, “is where You-Know-Who…?”

“Yes,” Ash said, “although I have no memory of it.” _Seeing as I wasn’t actually present_.

“Nothing?” Ron asked.

“Do you remember anything from when you were a baby?” Ash retorted.

“No,” Ron admitted, looking a little disappointed. He stared at the scar for several seconds before catching himself and looking out the window again.

After a few awkward minutes, Ash decided he ought to get to know Ron a bit better, since Professor McGonagall had recommended the Weasley family as a whole. “Is your whole family magically gifted?” he asked.

“Er, I think so,” Ron answered. “Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an… accountant I think, but we don’t talk about him much.”

Ash tilted his head slightly. “No call for accountants in the magical world?” he asked. “Or is that sort of job reserved for goblins?”

“I… you’d probably have to ask my brother Bill about that,” Ron replied. “How about you? I heard you had go live with muggles after… the thing. What’s that like?”

“Eh,” Ash said, wiggling his hand in a “so-so” gesture. “I’m stuck with an aunt and uncle who despise magic on principle. I can put up with it, but I’d have preferred growing up with… how many siblings do you have?”

“Five older brothers,” Ron answered, sullen, “I’m the sixth, then there’s Ginny. I’ve got a lot to live up to, you could say. Bill and Charlie have already left Hogwarts; Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was Quidditch Captain. Now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get good marks and lots of people think they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do it doesn’t matter because they did it first. You never get anything new either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.” He reached into his pocket and extracted an aged, fat grey rat that seemed to be asleep despite being moved around. “His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless. Hardly ever wakes up. Percy got a new owl as a gift from my dad because he made Prefect, but we couldn’t aff- I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink, as if ashamed of saying too much, and went to staring back out the window again. Ash gave him a moment of calm before responding. “Well, old rat aside, I’m envious of you.” He nodded slightly as Ron’s head whipped back to stare at him incredulously. “You’re going into this school thing with a support network already. The only reason I’ve got everything I need is because I inherited the Potter bank vault, and that’s only on account of Voldemort-”

Ron gasped and recoiled.

“What?” Ash asked, bemused.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” Ron exclaimed, sounding equal parts shocked and impressed. “I thought that you, of all people, would-”

Ash rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically. “Ron,” he said, long-suffering, “the _morag_ _blew himself up_ trying to kill a baby. Why should I be afraid to name him after _that_ kind of muck-up?”

“Well…” Ron demurred, “Aren’t you afraid he isn’t really gone? That he might, y’know, come back to finish the job?”

Ash gave the red-haired boy his stoniest look. “I repeat,” he said slowly, “the man tried to kill a defenseless baby. And _failed_. So far as I’m concerned, he’s not worth pity, let alone fear.”

“Wow,” Ron said.

The conversation lapsed then, as the Hogwarts Express was taking them out of London and was now rolling between fields full of cows and sheep. Ash and Ron sat in silence for a while, Ron watching the landscape while Ash stared at the ceiling, trying to decide whether or not he’d done the real Harry Potter any favors by acting so caviler about Voldemort. He’d been perfectly honest, of course; Ash had no doubts that he could at least be a match for the so-called Dark Lord if the two were to face off. That certainty, however was based on Ash’s own considerable skill at combat magic, which was an advantage an untrained eleven year-old like Harry would not have.

That line of thinking brought him to another troubling question. _Voldy at his prime was practically untouchable_ , Ash thought, _and the s_ _tory_ _says he’d already cut down Harry’s parents. He was in no immediate danger, with all the time in the world to kill baby Harry. How does an experienced killer in such a low-stress environment fail so hard that the backlash not only kills him – or nearly so – and blows up the house, but leaves his target with only a_ _single,_ _relatively small wound?_

_A_ _nd what is Mysterious Letters’mn’s purpose in trying to interfere-?_

A knock the compartment door brought Ash out of his reverie and he he looked down to see a smiling old woman slide the door open enough to display the cart full of candy she was pushing. “Anything off the cart, dears?” she asked.

Ash cast a glance at Ron, whose ears went pink again as he muttered about having brought sandwiches. Ash stood up and went out into the corridor to look at the cart’s stock. Everything he saw was some kind of candy or sugary snack, precisely the sorts of things to tempt a young boy heading off to school for the first time but held less appeal to someone hoping for a more substantial lunch. Ash shot another quick look at Ron; the red-head had produced several small paper-wrapped sandwiches from somewhere and was casting an envious look at the cart in what he probably thought was a subtle way.

Ash pulled out his money pouch and bought several of every kind of sweet on the cart. The envy on Ron’s face was clearer as Ash dumped the load onto an empty seat, although he tried to cover it with a sardonic, “Hungry, are you?”

“I had a light breakfast,” Ash said. “and you can have some if you’ll give me one of those sandwiches.”

Ron’s face lit up a little, but instead of agreeing right away, he unwrapped one of the sandwiches, pulled it apart, and grimaced. “You don’t want any of these,” he said. “They’re all dry, and corned beef to boot.”

“Corned beef is acceptable,” Ash replied. “Half of your lot for half of mine, then,” he insisted, holding out a cauldron cake tantalizingly.

“Deal,” Ron agreed, snatching the cake and passing Ash the unwrapped sandwich.

The corned beef sandwich was dry and a little tough, but Ash forced it down before joining Ron in attacking the pile of sweets. The first thing Ash grabbed was a pentagonal box labeled “Chocolate Frog.” He popped open the box and bit back a yelp when the frog leaped out and landed on the sweets pile. Ash gingerly picked the thing up and showed it to Ron with a concerned, “Uh?”

“It’s jus’ a spell,” Ron assured around his last bite of cauldron cake. “They usually only have the one good hop in them. More important: who’s on the card? I’m looking for Agrippa.”

Ash looked back at the Chocolate Frog box and noticed a card on the bottom, and fished it out. The picture showed a blue-eyed man wearing half-moon glasses on a crooked nose and with a long silver beard. The name under the picture said Albus Dumbledore.

“So, this is Dumbledore,” Ash murmured, turning the card over to read the short biography on the back.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore!” Ron exclaimed, reaching for a Chocolate Frog of his own.

“I didn’t grow up in the same world as you,” Ash pointed out. He flipped the card back around to the front, and to his shock the picture frame was empty. “He’s gone!”

“Well, you can’t expect him to stick around all day,” Ron said dismissively, opening his Frog, catching the chocolate in his mouth and extracting the card with practiced ease.

“I think I _can_ so expect,” Ash retorted, “seeing as it’s a photograph, not a film strip.”

“A wha?” Ron mumbled around his frog. He finished eating, looked at the card he got, and then said in a flash of realization, “Do pictures in the muggle world not move?”

“Correct.”

“Weird,” Ron concluded.

Ash’s eyes flicked between Ron and the picture of Dumbledore walking back into frame and smiling at Ash. _On the one hand,_ Ash thought, _I should pursue this further. On the other hand, an eleven-year-old boy is probably not the best partner for a discussion on the metaphysics of apparent living photographs._ He set the card aside and reached for a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“You’ll want to be careful with those,” Ron said as Ash opened the bag. “When they say ‘every flavor’ they _mean_ every flavor. You’ll get all the normal ones like chocolate, peppermint, and marmalade, but then you’ll also get things like spinach, liver, and tripe. George reckons he got a booger flavored one once.” When Ash’s hand hesitated over the bag, Ron reached in and plucked out a green bean. He carefully bit into one end and made a face. “Bleh, sprouts,” he reported.

“Sounds like a marketing gimmick that went off the rails,” Ash said, dumping a few beans out into his hand and inspecting them. The first few he tried turned out to be toast, strawberry, curry, and wintergreen. Then he nibbled on a yellow one that gave him a kick in the throat. Coughing lightly, he reached for one of Ron’s remaining sandwiches and unwrapped it. He then mashed the bean between his fingers and spread it as best he could on the corned beef. “Mustard flavor,” he explained to Ron’s curious look, and then took a bite. “A slight improvement,” Ash concluded, “but only barely.”

The train continued to roll on as Ron coached Ash through the eccentricities of wizard candy, the scenery outside changing from tamed farmland to thick, wild forest.

There was a knock at the compartment door, and it slid open to reveal a tearful, round-faced boy. “P-pardon me,” the boy asked, “but have either of you seen a toad anywhere?”

Ash quickly checked under the benches and shook his head. “Sorry, nope,” he said.

The boy wailed, “He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” Ash said confidently. “He can’t have gotten far.”

“Yes,” the boy said, sniffling, “you’re right. Well, if you spot him…” He left without further instruction, closing the door as he went.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” Ron said. “If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t really talk.” He shot a look of mild disdain at the rat in question, who was sleeping soundly on Ron’s lap. “He might’ve died any you’d never know the difference,” Ron groused. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday, just to make him a little more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. Here, I’ll show you…” Setting Scabbers to the side, he got up, rummaged in his trunk, and produced a battered-looking wand. It had dents and chips along its length and something shimmering was poking out of the end. “Unicorn hair’s starting to poke out,” Ron noted glumly. “Anyway-”

Ron had barely lifted his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The boy who had lost his toad was back, accompanied by a girl already dressed in her Hogwarts robes and sporting a great bush of untamed curly brown hair that made Ash do a double-take. _Nearly mistook that ‘do for Carmilla_ , Ash thought.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” the girl asked. “Neville’s lost his.” She had a bossy kind of voice, and prominent front teeth.

“No sign since he last checked with us,” Ash reported. He started to give the compartment another cursory search, but the girl wasn’t paying him any attention; her eyes were locked onto Ron’s wand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then,” the girl commanded, taking a seat. Neville remained in the doorway, looking uncomfortable but afraid to try and leave.

Ron was taken aback by the girl’s attitude, but he cleared his throat and started waving his wand over Scabbers. “ _Sunshine daisy, butter mellow_ ,” he recited, “ _turn this stupid fat rat yellow!_ ”

Nothing happened; to Ash’s senses, the magic threads hadn’t budged more than to follow the end of the wand, and Scabbers remained grey.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” the girl asked. “If so, it’s not a very good one, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells, and they’ve all worked for me.” Ash tried to interject a comment, but the girl kept talking, quickly building up speed as she said, “Nobody in my family is magic at all, so it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard. I’ve already learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way; who are you?”

Ash cast a glance at Ron and hid a smirk at the other boy’s stunned expression. “I’m Ash,” he said, “and this is Ron Weasley. Pleased you meet you, Ms. Granger.” He offered his hand, and Hermione grasped it in a very ladylike handshake. “And nice to meet you properly, Neville,” Ash said, standing up to give his hand to the round-faced boy. “Hope you find you toad soon.”

“Thanks,” Neville said, taking Ash’s hand limply. At the last second before Ash could withdraw from the handshake, Neville’s grip tightened as his eyes locked onto the lightning-bolt scar. “Hold on,” Neville said, “that scar. You’re Harry Potter!”

“And here I thought I’d finally make it through a meeting without being caught,” Ash sighed theatrically.

“Have to hide that scar better, mate,” Ron quipped.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Hermione asked as Ash sat back down..

“Despite my half-baked efforts, yes,” Ash replied, trying to brush more hair over his forehead.

“I know all about you, of course,” Hermione said. “I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.”

“I’ve read _Rise and Fall_ ,” Ash said. “Did the others have anything different to say about the luckiest dice-roll of the last decade?”

“Hm, not really,” Hermione said, looking a little disappointed.

Ash shrugged. “That’s not too surprising, since the only actual living witness to the event was too young to remember anything, and not exactly available for interviews in the first place.”

“Uh, so where _have_ you been all these years?” Neville asked. “I’ve heard there’s lots of theories, but my Gran says they’re all a load of bull.”

“Some great thinker thought it wise to leave me in the care of my closest living, and utterly non-magical, relatives,” Ash answered. “Er, not that I have any problems with muggles in general,” he added with an apologetic look to Hermione. “The Dursleys are just… not the best people to choose to raise a wizard, in my opinion.”

Hermione gave Ash a look that he couldn’t quite decipher, opened her moth as if to say something, and then quickly stood up. “Well, we should probably get back to looking for your toad now, Neville,” she said. She herded Neville out into the corridor and started to close the door behind her, then glanced back and said, “You should probably change into your robes soon; I suspect we’ll be arriving shortly.”

Ash sighed and sank into his seat a little, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, that ended poorly,” he grumbled.

“She was a bit mental, wasn’t she?” Ron said, tossing his wand back into his trunk. “Whatever House I end up in, I hope she’s not in it. Then again, so long as I’m not in Slytherin…”

“What’s wrong with Slytherin?” Ash asked.

“That’s the House You-Know-Who was in, of course,” Ron answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Most of the wizards that sided with Him were Slytherin too, according to Dad,” he added after seeing Ash’s lack of reaction.

 _Seems a flimsy reason to dread that House_ , Ash thought, _but I_ am _talking to a literal child here._ Deciding to change the subject, he asked, “So, what are your oldest brothers doing, now that they’re out of school?” He was curious what sorts of jobs were available to wizards trying to hide the existence of magic from the wider world, besides teaching and keeping shops on Diagon Alley.

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Egypt working as a curse-breaker for Gringotts,” Ron replied. “Did you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the _Daily Prophet_ , but I don’t suppose you get that with the muggles. Somebody tried to rob a high-security vault!”

Ash quirked an eyebrow. From his own experience in the bank’s vault caverns, he figured just getting around the place without the goblins’ help would be a daunting enough task, let alone trying to break into a vault and escape. And if the rumor of a guard dragon in the lowest depths was true… “What happened to them?” Ash asked.

“Nothing,” Ron exclaimed, “that’s why it’s such big news! They haven’t been caught, but they didn’t steal anything either, which is odd. My dad figures they must have been real powerful dark wizards to get around Gringotts. ‘Course, everyone gets scared when this sort of thing happens, in case it’s You-Know-Who behind it.”

Ash was starting to mildly annoyed at the way everyone avoided saying Voldemort’s name, as if he were a demon that could be summoned by speaking its name too much. Given what the man and his followers had done to the magical community and shocking and abrupt way it had ended, it was understandable that people would still feel haunted and uncertain about their safety, but refusing to name the source of that fear was a step too far. Horrors without names were, due to being less defined, inherently more fearful than the named.

“So, what’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked, clearly anxious to get away from the subject of Voldemort.

“I’ve never even heard of Quidditch,” Ash replied.

“Wha-” Ron gasped, and then grinned. “Oh, you just wait, it’s the best game in the world!” And so he went off, explaining all about the game, the positions of the seven players on each team, the four balls, and so on. Ash sat back and made polite sounds when appropriate, but he let most of Ron’s explanation simply wash over him. Ash had little interest in sports generally, and from little he absorbed he concluded that Quidditch was an overly complicated and unnecessarily dangerous one that he had no intention of investing his precious time in. Still, it was clear that Ron had a deep love for the game and it was nice to see him be rid of the anticipatory anxiety that had tinged his conversation until now.

Ron’s eager ramblings had transitioned to detailing the kind of broomstick he wanted to buy before trying out for one of the Hogwarts intramural Quidditch teams when he was interrupted by the compartment door sliding open yet again. Ash and Ron looked over to see that their visitors were a new set: a pale-skinned boy with a pointed face with a resting sneer and hair so light as to almost colorless, flanked by a pair of larger boys who had the bulk and dull expressions of natural-born members of the brute squad. Ash dismissed the pair as little more than lackeys and focused on the boy in the middle, who was looking at Ash with equal interest.

Ash quickly checked his bangs, and concluded he’d already done his best to hide the scar.

“Is it true?” the pale boy said, his voice a snobbish drawl. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.”

Ash fought to keep a disgruntled frown off his face. _My gut says blame the Weasley twins_ , he thought, _but Hermione and Neville have probably had enough time to search half the train for that toad by now, blabbing as they went. But, it’s not like I swore anyone to secrecy._

Figuring this might be his last chance before the train reached Hogwarts and brought an end to his game of dodging the label of Harry Potter, Ash decided to go for broke. He made a show of looking around the compartment. “Harry Potter?” he exclaimed. “Here? Sure you heard right, mate?” He turned slightly and pointed at Ron. “You know anything about Harry Potter being in here?”

To his credit, Ron caught on to the ploy almost immediately. Shrugging, he said, “That’s news to me, Ash. Maybe he’s invisible?” He groped about in the empty air in the seat next to him.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” the pale boy sneered. “I know who _you_ are, at least. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” He shot a condescending look at Ash. “Ash, was it? What’s your last name?”

“Rather a rude question from someone who hasn’t introduced himself yet,” Ash retorted, his joy at finally scoring a point swallowed up by annoyance at the boy’s entitled tone.

The boy’s sneer vanished, and he looked momentarily uncertain. He recovered his aplomb quickly and answered, “I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. This,” he gestured to his goons, “is Crabbe, and Goyle.” The goons merely grunted, and Malfoy gestured at Ash. “So then, Ash _what_?”

“‘Ash’ me later when you get a less pompous attitude, Draco,” Ash deflected with a wicked grin.

Malfoy’s ears turned pink, and his head jerked back as if Ash had physically poked him. “You should be more careful how you talk to me,” Malfoy growled. “My father is-”

“I don’t give two figs about your father,” Ash interrupted. “In my book, a name’s only worth what you put into it yourself. Now kindly skedaddle; Ron and I need to change.”

Malfoy scowled, and Crabbe and Goyle started cracking their knuckles. Eyeing the candy that Ron and Ash still hadn’t finished, Malfoy said, “No, I don’t think we will just yet. Seems you still have some food left, and we’ve eaten all of ours.” Goyle, who was closest to the food, reached out a hand to grab something. Ash stood up, aiming a dangerous glare at Goyle, but before Ash could do anything further Goyle suddenly jumped back with a yelp. Scabbers, lying mostly forgotten on the seat, had stirred with surprising agility and sank his teeth into the knuckle of Goyle’s thumb and was holding on for dear life as the boy flailed about trying to shake the rat off. After a couple seconds, Scabbers came loose and flew across the compartment, with Ash diving to snag him before he hit the window. Malfoy and his goons fled, screaming.

“Good riddance,” Ash snorted at the empty doorway. He handed Scabbers back to Ron with a warm smile. “Looks like this old rat’s still got a few sparks in him after all, Ron.”

Before Ron could reply, Hermione Granger reappeared at the compartment door, looking cross. “What has been going on here?” she demanded. “You haven’t been fighting, have you?”

“Scabbers is the only one who’s been fighting,” Ron said with a hint of newfound respect for his pet.

“We were just standing up to some would-be bullies,” Ash added. “Any luck with the toad hunt, Ms. Granger?”

“Oh!” Hermione said, thrown by the question. “Uh, no. Neville’s still looking, of course, but I talked to the conductor and he said we’ll be arriving within minutes, so I’m making sure everyone’s changed into their uniforms and not running childishly up and down the corridor.” She’d started to recover her bossy tone by the end, but when Ash gave her a grateful nod and thumbs-up, she flushed and quickly withdrew, closing the door as she went.

“She’s mental, I’m telling you,” Ron commented, digging a robe and hat out of his trunk.

“She’s just anxious, I’m sure,” Ash replied, pulling out and opening his own trunk. “Give it a week or two for us to settle in, and I bet she’ll seem a whole different person.”


End file.
